


You're My Mission

by R1ver_S0ng (Murder_Kitten)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Avengers epilogue, Brainwashing, Character Redemption, F/F, F/M, Fight Scenes, GSW's, Grimmauld Place, Hydra, Kissing, Legilimency, Minor Character Deaths, Nightmares, PTSD, Pensieve Memories, SHIELD, Soulbonds, Soulmate AU, Soulmates, The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, Time Travel, Time Turner, Torture, assassinations, healing spells, memory wipes, st mungo's, stroke victims, the Black Widow program/Red Room training
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:33:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 25,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26245729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Murder_Kitten/pseuds/R1ver_S0ng
Summary: Three killers. Two soulbonds. And one Time-Turner in the hands of a Gryffindor determined to set things right. When Hermione is asked to do the unthinkable and save her former enemy and torturer from herself, she has no idea of the events that will soon unfold. Saving Bellatrix will bring Hermione into the crosshairs of the two most lethal Hydra assassins in history. The Black Widow and the Winter Soldier will stop at nothing to eliminate their targets and complete their mission. But when secret soulbonds are revealed, will Hermione risk it all for a former assassin? Or will she be just another casualty in Hydra's war for a new world order?#MMFMiniBang20CrossoverSoulmate AU.Multichap. Complete.
Relationships: Bellatrix Black/Natasha Romanoff, Hermione Granger/Bucky Barnes
Comments: 20
Kudos: 56
Collections: Marvelously Magical Mini Bang 2020





	1. For the Price of a Cup of Tea

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: the characters do not belong to me but are the property of J.K.R, Warner Bros, Stan Lee and the MCU. No copyright infringement is intended. I make no profit from these works. All stories are for fun and entertainment only. Many thanks to my friend, artist and beta Gcgraywriter for her time and help with this story. 
> 
> I always welcome reviews/comments of people who enjoy my works. 
> 
> Thank you for taking the time to read. I hope you enjoy it.

_September 22nd 1999_

Hermione Granger stared up at the imposing iron gates of Malfoy Manor, cold dread coiling in the pit of her stomach. _I can do this,_ she told herself, biting her lip. She hadn’t been back here for over a year, not since _that_ night. The night that she still had nightmares about… The night that she’d been tortured and carved into by Bellatrix Lestrange. She shook her head, trying to force the memory to the back of her mind. The war was over. What was done was done, she reminded herself sternly, pushing the gate open and entering the perfectly manicured grounds of the Manor. 

It appeared Narcissa had lowered the wards for her, and Hermione wondered at that. She questioned a great many things… like _why_ Narcissa had asked her to come here of all places. Why Narcissa would want to see her at all was a complete mystery. Granted, an apology was long overdue, but Hermione doubted Narcissa had summoned her here for that. For one thing, the Malfoys didn’t seem the sort to apologise - that took decency and humility; qualities that all Malfoys Hermione had ever met sorely lacked. And for another thing, if Narcissa wanted to apologise, why not just send an owl and a Gringotts cheque? Nothing said _sorry_ like being set up comfortably for life. 

Hermione raised her right hand and rapped firmly on the polished front door three times, gritting her teeth as she waited for an answer. The sooner this was over, the sooner she could go back to her reading. As was her usual habit, she had ordered the top one hundred best selling novels of the year and planned to have them finished sometime before Christmas. 

The door swung open and Hermione quickly forced her lips into what she hoped was a polite smile, but probably came across as more of a pained grimace to the tiny house-elf who opened the door to receive her. 

“Miss Hermione Granger?” the elf inquired. 

Hermione nodded stiffly. She still had deep misgivings about the forced enslavement of house-elves. Still, she had learned to hold her tongue about it somewhat, particularly when she was an invited guest at someone else’s home. When she formed S.P.E.W into an official Ministry department however, it would be a different story, she promised herself. 

“Mistress Cissa has been waiting for Miss Hermione. Hocus can take Miss Hermione’s coat?” the elf offered politely, not giving Hermione a chance to object before wrestling the offending article of clothing from her arms. 

Hermione was thankful she had worn long sleeves today, yet another habit she had picked up after the war. Short sleeves weren’t worth the horrified stares she would get if she bared her _Mudblood_ scar in public. Whatever dark curse Bellatrix’s cruel blade had been enchanted with prevented the ugly script from healing or being concealed by a glamour. Yet another reason to hate the witch. Bellatrix had made certain Hermione wouldn’t forget her in a hurry. 

“This way please, Miss Hermione. Mistress Cissa ordered tea to be served in the garden as soon as the guests arrive.” Hocus informed her, leading the way down a long corridor lit by wall sconces. 

Hermione followed closely, perplexed. _Guests? Plural?_ She had assumed she would see Narcissa alone. What was the woman up to now?

She followed Hocus through a set of white, double French doors and out into a pleasant rose garden shaded by hanging plants that were suspended only by air and magic, rather like the floating candles of the Hogwarts Great Hall, only much more beautiful and ethereal, Hermione thought admiringly, gazing up at the floating garden with a sense of wonder. 

“The last guest has arrived, Mistress Cissa,” Hocus said with a delicate little curtsey. 

“Very well. Miss Granger, please, come join us. And Hocus, pop down to the kitchens and inform Pocus the tea and cakes can be served now.” Narcissa directed, as the elf immediately complied and vanished with a little _pop._

Hermione approached the small table of assembled guests somewhat nervously, acknowledging each of the company with a nod and slight smile. She was relieved to see a friendly face or two around the table - Andromeda Tonks smiled welcomingly at her, little Teddy asleep on her lap. The others Hermione knew by sight but had never spoken much to - Griselda Marchbanks, Augusta Longbottom, Muriel Prewett and Eleanor Bones, who looked so similar to her daughter Susan that Hermione was certain had they been side by side, she would have thought them sisters. 

She was saved from the pain of introductions when Narcissa’s elves, Hocus and Pocus appeared; one bearing a silver tea service and the other carrying an enormous tiered stand of dainty cupcakes, professionally decorated from the look of the delicate purple and gold flowers adorning the creamy white frosting. 

“Earl Grey?” Narcissa offered. 

Hermione nodded awkwardly, allowing the witch to pour some of the steaming tea into her cup. Narcissa proceeded to pour tea for everyone at the table, and Hermione wondered at that. She had expected one of the house-elves to do it, but perhaps it was an old fashioned hostess duty she was unaccustomed to seeing carried out. 

Hermione snagged one of the dainty cupcakes and played with a little frosting flower absentmindedly. She could feel someone watching her and looked up at the grey eyes and perfect hair of Narcissa Malfoy, who quirked an eyebrow at her. Likely Hermione was neglecting to observe some form of high society etiquette, like thanking the hostess, perhaps with a graceful curtsey or a kiss on the hand. _Screw that,_ she thought rebelliously. She would never thank Narcissa Malfoy for _anything._ In fact, she didn’t even want to be here and determined to get the whole thing over with as quickly as possible.

“So…” Hermione said awkwardly, drumming her fingers on the tabletop, and earning a reproving glare from Madam Marchbanks. Hermione glanced around the table, but nobody said anything, so she sighed and threw caution to the wind. 

“Why am I here?” she asked, looking pointedly at Narcissa. 

“I think that discussion can wait until after tea,” Narcissa said cooly, raising her cup to her lips. 

“I think that discussion can start right now or I’m _leaving._ ” Hermione declared, in no mood for games. 

“Very well,” Narcissa said calmly, lowering her cup. “I want to talk about my sister.”

Hermione’s eyes flickered to Andromeda, looking questioningly at her. 

“Bellatrix.” Narcissa clarified. 

Hermione blanched. “No," she said firmly. “I have nothing to say about Bellatrix. Nothing _nice_ at least,” she said furiously, her scarred arm seeming to throb at the mere mention of the mad witch. 

“Hear me out,” Narcissa said softly. “If you don’t like what I have to say, you’re free to leave. I won’t bother you again, I give you my word.” 

“Fine,” Hermione said, biting her lip. “What about Bellatrix?” 

Narcissa’s serene expression faltered for a moment, and Hermione watched her closely, wondering what exactly she wanted to say about her sister. 

Narcissa sighed deeply and exchanged a look with Andromeda who smiled encouragingly. 

“Bellatrix hurt a lot of people,” Narcissa admitted slowly.

Hermione fought the urge to interrupt, she knew this about Bellatrix already; she had a pretty vivid reminder of it carved into her arm after all. 

“Many of the people she hurt are sitting around this table today. She participated in the murder of Muriel’s nephews - Gideon and Fabian. She tortured Augusta’s son and daughter-in-law into insanity and effectively orphaned her grandson. She murdered Andromeda’s husband and daughter. She killed Eleanor’s brother Edgar and helped the Dark Lord murder Amelia. And she wiped out the entire McKinnon family, including Madame Marchbanks' niece Marlene. She killed my cousin, Sirius. And she tortured you and countless others," she added, turning her grey eyes on Hermione, who stared back at her, sickened. 

“What is the point of telling me all this?” Hermione asked, hating Bellatrix, if possible, even more than she had when she’d first arrived at this obscene garden party. 

“I want you to help her,” Narcissa said quietly. “ _We_ want you to help her.”

“First of all, it’s impossible - she’s dead. And second of all, why would you want to _help_ her? She destroyed most of your families!” Hermione declared. 

“Bellatrix wasn’t always bad… passionate, impulsive, a little fanatical, yes. But she wasn’t a killer. Not until the Dark Lord corrupted her after she graduated from Hogwarts. She wasn't much older than you are now.” Narcissa said quietly.

“And Azkaban _changed_ her,” Andromeda added. “She was always committed, deeply devoted to serving the right cause, but she wasn’t a psychopath until the Dementors fed on her every day for fourteen years.” 

“But what does it _matter?”_ Hermione said. “It’s in the past. It’s over. It’s done.” 

“It matters,” Augusta Longbottom said, laying her wrinkled old hand over Hermione’s, “because if you can get through to her, _save_ her, you can save everyone. All the families, all the lives she destroyed.” 

“Save her? What are you talking about?” Hermione said uncomprehendingly. 

Then Eleanor Bones laid a delicate gold chain and hourglass pendant in front of her and Hermione finally understood… The Bellatrix they wanted to save was in the _past._


	2. Thanks for the Memories

_October 4th 1999_

Hermione stared up at the tapestry of the _Noble and Most Ancient House of Black,_ seriously reconsidering her options right about now. It had been a week since Narcissa’s High Tea at the Manor. A week in which Hermione had turned the idea over and over in her mind, drawing the same conclusion each and every time: they were insane, _all_ of them. The war was won; it was _over._ Why couldn’t they simply let it be? 

It wasn’t like she hadn’t lost people too, she reasoned. Fred, for example. Or Remus. But was she being asked to go back and change their fates? To somehow turn Augustus Rookwood or Antonin Dolohov away from the paths they had chosen? No. She was simply expected to do what any normal person would: mourn for her friends and move on with life as best she could. Meddling with time was dangerous, not to mention highly _illegal._ And what if she changed too much? What if she altered the outcome of the war by mistake and even more innocent lives were lost in the process…

“What if I make it worse?” Hermione said apprehensively to Andromeda, who had accompanied her to Grimmauld Place to see the family tapestry. 

Andromeda turned and looked at her with a sad sort of smile. 

“What if you make it better?” she said calmly. 

“Why does it have to be me, anyway? She’s _your_ sister. Couldn’t you or Narcissa-- ?” Hermione asked desperately. 

“What are you really afraid of, Hermione?” Andromeda asked, giving her a shrewd look. “Making a mistake … or seeing Bellatrix again after all that she’s done?” 

Hermione didn’t answer, her mind drifting back to the seemingly endless pain she had suffered at the hands of the psychotic witch. Andromeda smiled kindly as if she recognised the look in Hermione's eyes. 

“If it helps, don’t think of it as being just about Bellatrix. Think about Teddy. He could have his mum and grandad in his life. Augusta could have her son and daughter-in-law, your friend Neville could have his parents and they could be a real family. Eleanor Bones could have her brother and sister back. Muriel - think about her nephews. I knew Gideon and Fabian at Hogwarts, they were so much like Fred and George. Molly’s children could actually have a chance to get to know their uncles. Molly could see her brothers again. You have no idea what losing them did to her. Madam Marchbanks could have her family back. She’s very old and she has no-one. Think about what it would mean for Harry to have Sirius back... This is not just about Bellatrix, Hermione. It’s about _everyone…_ And I think you’ll find you have more in common with Bella than you think.” Andromeda said softly. 

Hermione whirled around. “I am _nothing_ like her!” she said furiously. “I--I have never killed anyone or _tortured_ them," she said, sickened at the idea that she could be compared to that psycho witch.

“That’s the Bellatrix _you_ know, Hermione. Not the one Cissa or I grew up with. People aren’t born evil. They’re _made_ that way. It is the tortured who become _torturers…”_ she said wisely. “Look at the memories we have collected for you. Understand her and you may be able to save her. To save all of them. But it _is_ your choice. None of us can make you. If you say no, we’ll respect that decision.” 

Hermione nodded mutely, watching Andromeda abandon the tapestry and pour several vials of memories into the stone Pensieve that sat on the coffee table in the centre of the room.

Hermione eyed the swirling silver pool of memories in the shallow stone basin apprehensively. 

“Ready?” Andromeda asked.

“Together?” Hermione said nervously, not feeling ready to see Bellatrix again, even the idea of a memory form of her was terrifying. 

“Together.” Andromeda agreed, taking Hermione’s hand as they leaned into the basin alongside each other, falling through the silvery surface. 

“Where are we?” Hermione asked, not recognising the wood-panelled hallway of the building they had landed in. There were intricately designed, rich carpets underfoot, and expensive artwork in ornate frames lining the walls. 

“Don’t you mean _when_?” Andromeda said with a soft smile. 

“Whichever,” Hermione said, looking around curiously. 

“This is Black Lodge,” Andromeda explained. “It was my parents’ winter residence. We came here every Christmas,” she added fondly. “And as to when, this is the 1962 Christmas holidays. Bella had just come home after her first term at Hogwarts.” 

“Is that _her?”_ Hermione asked, watching two dark-haired little girls creep down the corridor, whispering and giggling to each other, one making shushing sounds to the other as they paused and listened at a door. 

“Her and I,” Andromeda said affectionately. “We were close once. She was only two years older than me.”

“Once? What happened?” Hermione asked. 

“I eloped with Ted,” Andromeda said with a shrug and a sly smile, as though the memory of this rebellious act still pleased her. 

Hermione raised her eyebrows. Andromeda was always so elegant and softly spoken, she hadn’t imagined her to have such a rebellious streak. However, she had known that Tonks’ father had been a Muggle Born. 

“Come on, we should listen too,” Andromeda said, waving Hermione down the corridor where they paused beside the two little girls at the door. 

There seemed to be a heated discussion happening on the other side of the door, the raised voices of the girl’s parents reaching their ears. 

“--absolutely unacceptable. I’ll not stand for such conduct, Druella. The girl has a family reputation to uphold," a male voice was saying angrily. 

“My father, Cygnus,” Andromeda explained to Hermione in a whisper. 

“What did she do?” Hermione whispered, nodding at the two girls who were no longer giggling, but looked exceedingly frightened. 

“Just listen,” Andromeda said quietly, and Hermione refocused her attention on the conversation on the other side of the door. 

“--not all bad, dear. Look at the second line of the letter. Her Head of House says Bellatrix is ‘remarkably bright and precocious… the most skilled young witch of her age with considerable abilities.’ See? That’s _good,_ ” Druella said placatingly. 

“Read the rest of the letter, Druella! _Read it!_ It is not _good,_ ” Cygnus said with such venom that Hermione was immensely thankful never to have met him in person. 

“Anti-social, conceited, a sophomaniac… flaunts her superior knowledge and talent in the most distasteful way… frequently caught sneaking into the library out of hours... several detentions issued for disrespectful backtalk… a vainglorious know-it-all in most regards…” Druella sighed. “We’ll have to talk to her, love.” 

“Oh, I’ll talk to her alright,” Cygnus said threateningly. “After she’s had a good whipping and a month of solitary confinement with nothing but bread and water!”

“Cygnus, no! She’s just a child!” Druella exclaimed.

The door was flung open and both little girls fled up the corridor in terror. 

“Bellatrix Black!!” Cygnus thundered, storming into the corridor. 

Hermione quailed in fear, before remembering he couldn’t see, hear or touch her; he was a memory only. The last thing she heard before the image dissolved was a bloodcurdling scream; her gut told her it belonged to eleven-year-old Bellatrix. 

* * *

The next memory swirled and formed around them before Hermione had a chance to ask Andromeda what had happened to Bellatrix. She had a feeling she didn’t want to know. 

Hermione looked around at the street they were now standing on. Surprisingly, it was one she recognised. 

“This is the _Rue de Rivoli -_ and down there is the _Musee du Louvre_!” Hermione exclaimed excitedly. “I came here on holiday with my parents just before I started third year.” 

Andromeda smiled bemusedly. “Shall we?” She said, indicating they should follow the trio of girls down the street, who from their similar features could only be Bellatrix, Andromeda and Narcissa. 

Bellatrix looked to be thirteen or fourteen years old, already haughtier and colder than the frightened eleven-year-old Hermione had witnessed in the previous memory. She wondered what privations and harsh treatment this Bellatrix had endured from her parents in the last few years between memories to bring about such a change. 

The group of girls were met by a sycophantic French boy, some years older than Bellatrix, who kissed her hand and proceeded to fawn over her, teasing and flirting like a fool as he led the three girls into the museum. Hermione shared a glance with Andromeda as they followed the small group, both thinking the same thing about the fawning French boy: _gross._

Hermione wondered at the significance of this memory, it seemed they had been wandering around looking at paintings for nearly an hour. The memory version of young Andromeda had long since tired of the excursion and returned to the family chateau, so this must be Narcissa’s memory, Hermione realised, watching as the insufferable French boy put his arm around Bellatrix and leaned down to kiss her. 

“Let go of me!” Bellatrix said disgustedly, wriggling out of his grip and giving the boy a hard shove in the chest that sent him sprawling to the floor. 

“What the hell is _wrong_ with you?” The boy demanded, scrambling to his feet, angry patches of colour suffusing his cheeks. 

“What’s wrong with _me?_ ” Bellatrix exclaimed, drawing herself up proudly. “I am the eldest daughter and heir apparent of Lord Cygnus of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, descendant of a lineage and bloodline so time-honoured and pure that it is without equal in this world! Don’t _ever_ presume to touch me.”

She turned on her heel and made to storm off, but the boy called after her spitefully. 

“It’s true what they say then… All the Black women are _mad!_ I thank _Vincent Duc de Trefle-Picques_ that my family isn’t cursed like yours! You’re gonna go black cat crazy, Bellatrix! Mark my words! _Black cat crazy!”_ he yelled after her, smiling triumphantly when she fled the museum, a young Narcissa going after her. 

Andromeda and Hermione followed, the latter deep in thought. The boy hadn’t been wrong she supposed. He was a jerk, but he wasn’t wrong. Bellatrix had gone crazy in the end, though whether that was a genetic predisposition towards madness or the result of more than a decade in Azkaban, it was hard to say. Azkaban seemed the more likely cause, Hermione reflected. Andromeda and Narcissa were both of the Black line and they seemed to have kept all their marbles. Part of her was dying to go back and correct the boy. The expression was ‘bat crap crazy,’ not ‘black cat crazy,’ she wanted to say. But maybe it was lost in translation… He was _French_ after all, she mused. 

She and Andromeda turned a corner and happened across a sobbing Bellatrix, who was curled on the ground while Narcissa held her and stroked her dark, curly hair. 

“I don’t want to go crazy…” Bellatrix said through her tears. 

“You won’t. I won’t let it happen," Narcissa said reassuringly, continuing to stroke her sister’s hair. 

“What if you can’t stop it?” Bellatrix said tearfully. “Look at Aunt Walburga and Aunt Elladora… Father says if they weren’t so rich, they’d have been locked up in an asylum by now. Or Azkaban… I don’t ever want to go there,” she said with a shudder. 

“You won’t. You won’t,” Narcissa promised as Hermione stared, horrified at the idea that the very things Bellatrix had feared at such a young age had happened. She _had_ gone crazy and she _had_ gone to Azkaban. 

“Don’t pay that stupid boy any mind, Bella,” Narcissa said comfortingly. “Come on, I know what will cheer you up,” she said, tugging her sister to her feet and leading her down the path to a house a few streets away. 

“Now wait here, and no peeking,” Narcissa said sternly, disappearing into the house.

Hermione and Andromeda waited with Bellatrix, each lost in thought. Andromeda was looking at her sister with a sweet, nostalgic kind of smile, but Hermione’s mind was reeling. She couldn’t reconcile the two images of Bellatrix in her head. One was the mad witch who killed and tortured people. The other was an innocent (granted, entitled and likely prejudiced) girl who was cooing at a tiny black Matagot kitten Narcissa had just placed in her arms. 

“What are you going to call him?” Narcissa asked as the two girls walked back down the street to the family chateau. 

“Farfelu,” Bellatrix replied, dropping a kiss on the tiny kitten’s nose. 

“What does that mean?” Narcissa asked, her French not as fluent as her big sister’s. 

“Wacky. Crazy,” Bellatrix said with a laugh, the sound entirely different to the mad cackle Hermione remembered. This laugh was as soft, gentle and warm as the kitten Bellatrix held, Hermione thought as the memory dissolved.

* * *

A new memory formed around them and Hermione turned, disoriented. They were in a darkened library, where the only glow came from the fireplace and a lit lantern hovering over a large mahogany desk, behind which a man sat. 

Three girls stood before the desk, the tallest with her long dark ringlets and defiant expression looked to be fifteen or sixteen years old - Bellatrix, Hermione realised. 

“Do you know why I’ve called you in here?” the man asked them sternly. His voice was familiar and Hermione looked questioningly at Andromeda, who nodded.

“Cygnus,” she said in a whisper. 

“No, sir,” the memory versions of Andromeda and Narcissa answered meekly, looking at their feet. 

“Bellatrix…” the man said in a low, warning tone.

She looked to be restraining herself from rolling her eyes and Hermione had to smile at that. 

“Yes, I know why we’re here,” she said, sounding bored. 

“And why are we here?” Cygnus said coldly, not looking impressed by her attitude. He reminded Hermione of Lucius Malfoy on a bad day. 

“Because you want to teach me a lesson and you want _them_ to watch,” she said sarcastically. However, Hermione noticed she threw her sisters a small, apologetic look. 

“What lesson am I trying to teach you, Bellatrix?” he asked, his eyes narrowed at his eldest daughter. 

She bit her lip before answering, and Hermione knew that despite her composed demeanour, Bellatrix was apprehensive at the thought of whatever punishment her father had deemed necessary for her ‘lesson.’ 

“You want me to _learn my place,_ ” Bellatrix said through gritted teeth, the words sounding rehearsed. 

“And what is your place?” Cygnus said coldly. 

Bellatrix glared at him. “I won’t play these stupid games of yours anymore, Father. If any other student came home with _twelve_ O.W.L.S, their parents would be proud, not _threatened_ by the idea that I might have a mind of my own, a career; that I might not want to be pimped out like some--some pureblood _broodmare!_ That I might want to choose for myself who I marry, _if_ I marry at all--”

“Enough!! Hold your tongue!” Cygnus said furiously, standing up and coming around the desk, wand in hand. “You will learn your place Bellatrix. You _will_ marry a pureblood of my choosing, you _will_ bear him as many heirs as he requires, you _will_ put aside these childish dreams and you _will_ learn to speak and conduct yourself with the respect and decorum of a daughter of House Black.” 

“Or?” Bellatrix said daringly.

“As I said, you will _learn,_ ” Cygnus said coldly. 

Suddenly Hermione knew what was going to happen before it did and she turned away, having no desire to see it. But she could still hear it: Bellatrix’s screams as her own father used the Cruciatus Curse on her to force her to submit, Narcissa and Andromeda’s terrified sobs as they watched their sister be tortured, before the memory finally dissolved. 

* * *

“How many more of these do I have to watch?” Hermione asked Andromeda, feeling sick to her stomach after the last memory. 

“This is the last one," Andromeda promised. “And one of the most important.” 

They were standing behind some bushes by the Hogwarts Black Lake next to a memory version of Andromeda, who seemed to be spying on her big sister.

Bellatrix looked to be nearly eighteen and was cocooned in the arms of a tall, good-looking Hufflepuff boy who dropped a sweet kiss on her lips. The two snogged for a few minutes before they broke apart, Bellatrix snuggling against him contentedly. It was the happiest Hermione had ever seen her. 

“Just a couple more days until graduation,” the boy said quietly. “Any idea what you’ll do after school, Bella?” 

“Whatever my parents decide, probably," Bellatrix said dully. 

“It doesn’t have to be like that,” the boy said, sounding hopeful. 

“It really does, Amos. You don’t know my father... You wouldn’t understand," she said sadly. 

“Amos?” Hermione repeated, flabbergasted. “Amos Diggory?” 

Andromeda nodded. 

“Bella was in love with him," she admitted, before placing a finger to her lips, indicating that Hermione should pay attention to the little scene unfolding before them. 

“I’d like to meet your father," Amos said thoughtfully. 

“No, you wouldn’t," Bellatrix muttered under her breath.

“I really would. I’d like to tell him a few things,” he said, his eyes gleaming mischievously. 

Bellatrix snorted. “Like what?” she said doubtfully.

“Like how in love I am with his daughter,” Amos said slowly as Bellatrix flushed crimson. “Like how I want to marry her…”

“What?” Bellatrix said quietly, as though she didn’t dare believe her ears.

“I mean it,” Amos said solemnly. “I want us to get married, Bella. I’ve been in love with you since third year and I know you love me too.”

“You do, huh?” Bellatrix said, her usual composure wavering. 

“I do,” Amos said, kissing her again. 

“My father would never allow it," Bellatrix said nervously. However, it was apparent from the longing expression on her face just how much she wanted this wonderful dream Amos offered her to be true.

“Why not? I’m a pureblood, if that’s what he’s worried about," Amos shrugged. 

“That’s not how it’s done," Bellatrix said, shaking her head. “Pureblood marriages are arranged.”

“So let’s arrange it then,” Amos said with a wink. 

Bellatrix nodded. “You and me?” she said hopefully.

“Forever,” Amos promised, sealing his word with a kiss as the memory dissolved.

* * *

Hermione and Andromeda landed back on the dusty floor of the drawing-room in Grimmauld Place _._ Hermione’s mind was reeling. The Bellatrix she’d seen was vastly different from the one she had encountered personally. 

“What happened?” she asked Andromeda. “Why didn’t she marry him?”

Andromeda looked at her sadly. 

“When my parents found out that Bella was engaged to Amos Diggory, they gave her a choice. Obliviate him and marry a more worthy suitor, or watch Amos be tortured and murdered in front of her. She chose to obliviate him," Andromeda said quietly.

Hermione recoiled in horror as Andromeda continued. 

“Bella was forced to stay at home for a few years after she graduated. My father knew he couldn’t control her, and she was devastated over Amos anyway. Then, when she was twenty-one, my parents arranged for her to marry Rodolphus Lestrange. They had to Imperius her to make her go through with it. And a fortnight after the wedding, Rodolphus sold her to You-Know-Who to buy his way into the Inner Circle,” Andromeda explained bitterly as Hermione sank to the floor and covered her mouth with her hands.

Andromeda’s voice shook as she carried on with the story.

“Bellatrix was tortured and experimented on by the Dark Lord himself for _years._ He broke her mind and body and remade her into his personal weapon; twisted her memories and made her believe that she was in love with him, that they were _soulmates_ , that he was teaching rather than torturing her with the Dark Arts… She started killing people for him. And then he disappeared and she tortured the Longbottoms into insanity to find him, and ended up in Azkaban.You know the rest," she said grimly. “The Bella I knew died the day she was sold to the Dark Lord, Hermione. But I believe you can change that and bring my sister back to me. You can save her; save everyone," Andromeda said imploringly.

Hermione swallowed hard. Bellatrix’s life story was much more horrifying than she had ever imagined. 

"How do you know all that about You-Know-Who torturing her?" she asked curiously. 

"Before Rodolphus was sentenced to Azkaban for the second time, Narcissa was allowed to meet with him. She interrogated him using a combination of Veritaserum and Legilimency, and he told her what had really happened to Bellatrix in those years," she replied in a deadened tone. 

“Just think about it?” Andromeda said pleadingly. 

Hermione nodded mutely, her mind too much of a confusing whirl to form coherent sentences. 

“I need to go pick up Teddy from Harry’s, but owl me if you need to talk. I know it’s a lot," Andromeda said, squeezing Hermione’s hand comfortingly before making her way to the door.

After she was gone, Hermione sat staring numbly at the Pensieve. She almost wished she didn’t know some of the things she had now learned about Bellatrix’s past. 

The memory of Bellatrix standing up to her father stuck in her mind. Maybe she was redeemable despite everything. And maybe, just maybe, she would consider making it her mission to change Bellatrix’s fate and the fates of so many others.


	3. Shades of the Past

_December 22nd 1999_

A few months later and more than 3,000 miles away, in the freezing heart of Siberia, someone else was about to be given a mission. 

Hidden away in an old bunker was a facility that belonged to an even older world order. This facility was one of many belonging to the world terror organisation known as Hydra. It was perhaps the most important of all Hydra facilities across the globe, for it was this facility that was home and training ground of the _Zima Soldat Programma_ (the Winter Soldier Program). 

Hydra had begun the program with one, the very first Winter Soldier, now there were six. They were the elite assets of Hydra, each one a deadly assassin with advanced training in the arts of killing, spycraft and sabotage; fluent in more than thirty languages, able to hide in plain sight and take down an entire country overnight. They were Hydra’s elite death squad, all trained and conditioned for three primary tasks: infiltrate, assassinate, destabilise. 

A new order had been issued that required the expertise of one of these elite operatives. The mission required the elimination of a target. This target presented a threat to the new world order Hydra had worked for decades to establish. There could be no question. The order was made; it must be complied with. The target would be eliminated. 

An operative was selected to carry out the mission: _Nayemnik_ (the Mercenary). Once he was taken out of his suspended state in the cryogenic chamber, he would be conditioned for the task. The first step was utilising the Memory Suppressing Machine to ensure full, unconditional compliance with orders. 

Decades ago, Hydra scientists had discovered through experimentation on the first Winter Soldier that the human brain was capable of storing two types of memories. The first was what was termed a ‘personal memory.’ These memories were of faces, names, and experiences or events. The second was what was known as an ‘impersonal memory.’ These were facts, learned skills, and muscle memory. It was the impersonal memories that were of the most use in conditioning an asset. If personal memories were wiped, it removed any hesitation on the part of the asset in carrying out an order and completing their mission. The retention of impersonal memories enabled an asset to remember how to speak other languages, how to engage, infiltrate, fight, shoot a gun, and almost any other skill needed to complete the mission without the complication of conscience or personal attachment. 

Hydra scientists had also discovered that when a person underwent certain traumatic events, such that the brain was unable to fully process it, there was an inherent fail-safe, some primal survival instinct of human physiology that enabled the mind to erase the memory of the event to protect itself from being overwhelmed by pain and trauma. Further experimentation had revealed that the Winter Soldier could be interrogated about an event, or shown a video of himself carrying out a mission, and be unable to remember it at all when his personal memories of it had been wiped. The serum he had been injected with allowed his body to regenerate more quickly, so the personal memories would inevitably return in days, weeks, months, sometimes years. But when that happened, his handlers would simply wipe him and start over. 

The wiping process was what the Mercenary was undergoing right now. The handler would first force him to focus on personal memories through a series of interrogation techniques. Upon unearthing these memories, the handler would then use the Memory Suppression Machine to send electric shocks through him, causing excruciating pain, stopping short of killing the Mercenary. The combination of personal memories and pain would cause the Mercenary's brain to create an automatic association between the pain and the memories. Personal memories meant prolonged, excruciating pain, which triggered the physiological fail-safe mechanism of the human brain, which would then erase the associated memories temporarily to ensure the Mercenary’s survival. When the memory wipe was complete, the Mercenary would then be read a series of ten trigger words which served to complete the conditioning process and make him entirely compliant to any orders given by a handler. 

Each set of trigger words was unique to a specific asset and had some connection to a personal memory the asset had divulged under interrogation. The underlying message was simple: comply or suffer pain. The Mercenary and the other members of the death squad had endured several decades of intensive conditioning to ensure compliance and the completion of the mission without question. 

The Mercenary's handler and fellow Hydra operative Alexei Vasiliev began to read from the asset’s personal manual, each word linked to a painful association, drilling the conditioning deeper into his brain and subconscious. 

“ _Utopleniye._ ” (drowning)

“ _Zaklyuchennyy._ ” (prisoner)

“ _Shest’desyat odin._ ” (sixty-one)

“ _Brat.”_ (brother)

_“Lodka.”_ (boat)

_“Devyat’.”_ (nine)

_“Zel’ye.”_ (potion)

_“Peshchera.”_ (cave)

“ _Odin.”_ (one)

_“Pozhiratel’ smerti.”_ (Death Eater)

Alexei closed the book softly, only one final check remained: confirmation from the asset. 

“ _Nayemnik?”_ (Mercenary) he said cautiously. 

“ _Gotov soblyudat,”_ (ready to comply) he replied, awaiting his orders. 

Alexei smiled and began to outline the mission parameters. He was quietly confident of Hydra’s victory, the Mercenary had never failed. 

* * *

The Mercenary surveyed the building blueprints, satellite images and drone footage Hydra had obtained for the completion of his mission. It was a high-security complex, multiple stories tall, belonging to the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division, or S.H.I.E.L.D as it was more commonly known within the intelligence community. His target happened to be the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D, was formerly of the CIA and had a distinguished career as an army colonel. He was a careful man. But not careful enough. 

Hydra had been gathering intel on him for some time now. They knew his routine and his habits; what time he left for work, the security arrangements around his home, who he lived with, what car he drove and the mileage, where he liked to stop for his morning coffee, the name of his driver, doorman and personal assistant, the layout of his office including the thickness of the bulletproof glass and the location of his hidden safe, the names and backgrounds of his personal security team, where he ate lunch, who he had dinner with every Tuesday, what time he usually went home, and which route he took. The details of his daily routine had all been carefully noted. Routine was predictable, and predictable was dangerous in this line of work. Routine was the target’s one weakness and it was going to get him killed. The Mercenary would make it his mission to ensure that Colonel Nicholas J Fury wouldn’t be putting in for Long Service Leave. 

Looking at the layout of the building, the Mercenary knew it would be difficult to infiltrate with so many S.H.I.E.L.D agents and security checks. Likely he would be apprehended before he could even get within 20 feet of the target. He could eliminate the mark at home, but that presented its own set of problems: bulletproof glass, reinforced steel doors, CCTV cameras, a security detail patrolling on foot, and witnesses, too many witnesses. That left only one option. The target must be eliminated on his way to or from work. Studying the blueprints again, the Mercenary traced the line of the bridge, considering the options. The S.H.I.E.L.D building had only one point of access by land: the bridge. One road in and one road out. Perfect. His mission was clear: the target would be eliminated tonight. 

* * *

Director Nick Fury was glad to leave the office at the end of what had been a very trying day. Some days it seemed he could trust no-one, not even his own agents. It made for a lonely life and a paranoid existence, but the persistent practice of constant vigilance was a large part of the reason he was still breathing, he thought grimly, just as the breath was knocked out of him. An orange ball of flame collided with his vehicle with all the force of an explosion, sending it rolling end over end, glass shattering all around him. 

Fury emerged, coughing, as smoke filled the car. He crawled through a buckled rear window frame and edged cautiously around to the driver side door. His driver, Roberts, was unconscious, blood trickling from a wound in his head, but he had a pulse. He was breathing, Fury discovered with relief, dragging him from the vehicle and laying him on his side. He’d be fine, he was one of the toughest agents he had on his protection detail. 

A figure suddenly loomed out of the shadows, masked, all in black, firearms gleaming in their thigh holsters, three M67 Hand Grenades and a knife at his belt, a wand in his hand. Fury went to reach for his own holstered Glock, but before his fingertips had even touched it, the masked man muttered something and a second explosion burst from the wand he held, torching the car and Roberts with it. Fury dove out of the way just in time, feeling a gut-wrenching pang of grief for Roberts as he did so. _Now it was personal._

Abandoning all precaution, Fury rushed the masked assassin, his trenchcoat whirling behind him, not even bothering to draw his sidearm, going in for a right hook, desperate to feel the satisfying crunch of the other man’s jaw under his hand. But he never got the satisfaction of that hit, as the assassin turned almost too quickly to be believed and aimed a savage kick at his stomach, which caught Fury painfully in the ribs as he leapt aside. 

Fury came at him again, seizing the assassin's wand and attempting to wrest it from his grip. He received a flat-footed kick to the stomach for his trouble that sent him flying backwards. The man was impossibly strong, Fury realised, but he’d got what he wanted. The wand snapped in his hands and he cast the pieces aside, rolling away as the assassin drew a pistol from his right thigh holster and fired three times at him, the bullets just missing as Fury rushed at him and knocked the gun from his hand, but the assassin simply drew another from his left holster, firing again, these bullets passing just above Fury’s shoulder. He wondered how much time he had before his luck ran out. 

The gun clicked empty and the assassin cast it aside, dealing Fury a vicious blow to the head and drawing a knife from his belt. Fury stumbled, spots floating across his vision, but then the assassin halted and lowered the blade, an odd gleam in his pale grey eyes, almost like recognition. Fury looked up at him dazedly. _Why had he stopped?_

A shot rang out and Fury waited for the pain, the blood, death itself, but it didn’t come. The knife clattered to the ground as the assassin fell, a rounded bullethole almost perfectly centred in the middle of his forehead. 

Fury drew his Glock, sweeping in a circle as he searched for whoever had fired the shot that had killed his would-be assassin. 

“Getting rusty there, boss,” a voice called, and Fury whirled around. 

“Coulson,” he said with a sigh of relief. 

“Who’s that?” Coulson asked, nodding at the body he’d just dropped. 

“He didn’t tell me his name," Fury said grimly. 

“Well, let’s see who your mystery man is," Coulson said, kneeling down and gently removing the mask from the assassin’s face. 

Fury felt his breath catch in his throat. 

“Regulus Black," he exclaimed.

“Who?” Coulson asked, mystified. 

“Young kid, went missing in ‘79 when he was eighteen years old. S.H.I.E.L.D was looking at recruiting him. He was in deep cover trying to get close to some British warlord. Voldemort. He’d massacred hundreds, but Regulus had an ‘in’ with him - family connections. When he disappeared, I thought he was dead. He hasn’t aged a day!” Fury exclaimed in disbelief. 

“Nor will he,” Coulson said grimly. “I’ll get a team down here, have this all cleaned up.” 

Fury nodded, getting a faraway look in his eyes.

“What is it?” Coulson asked.

‘He was my friend once," Fury said quietly. 

“I’m sorry, boss,” Coulson said. “We’ll find out what happened to him.” 

Fury nodded in agreement. 

* * *

The next day however, the body had disappeared from the morgue at S.H.I.E.L.D Headquarters. Fury was absolutely livid and demanded a full investigation. 

The body of one Regulus Black a.k.a The Mercenary had been stolen and returned to the Hydra facility in Siberia by their own mole within S.H.I.E.L.D. They couldn’t risk the exposure of the Winter Soldier Program or of Hydra’s role in the assassination attempt on Nick Fury. 

A full autopsy was ordered, and the mortician employed at the facility found something quite unexpected. 

“What does it mean?” Alexei Vasiliev asked. He wouldn’t live much longer. When the Mercenary failed his mission, Alexei had failed Hydra by extension, and there was only one way Hydra answered failure. 

“You see these letters here?” the mortician said, indicating the black script that seemed to have been branded into the Mercenary’s heart muscle. 

“They’re not just letters," Alexei said wonderingly. “They’re initials.”

“Whose?” The mortician asked curiously. 

Alexei traced the intricately woven _N.J.F_ with his eyes, marvelling at the phenomenon which he’d only ever heard rumours about. 

“The initials belong to the target. This is why the asset failed,” he said musingly. 

“Even if you are right, what do a few letters matter?” the mortician said dismissively. 

“What do you know of soul bonds?” Alexei asked. 

“I know they’re a rumour, a girlish fantasy,” the mortician replied. 

“Not anymore,” Alexei said with a meaningful look. He would mention it at length in the mission report. Hydra would make use of the information after his death, he was sure of that much.

Hail, Hydra. 


	4. Like Red on a Rose

__

_July 9th 2000_

Sixteen-year-old Natalia Alianovna Romanova kicked out viciously with one slender leg, dropping her opponent to her knees as she followed up the kick with an unorthodox headbutt that sent her rival crashing to the floor. Madame B gave a curt nod and two more opponents stepped forward to engage the teen. 

Nat never slowed for even an instant, drawing her right leg up to her chest and slamming the heel of her foot into one opponent’s diaphragm, dropping the girl to the floor and twisting in mid-air to deliver a timed strike to the lower back of the other, who collapsed with a moan of pain. One of her earlier opponents was back on her feet and advanced on her, fists raised, but Nat caught the blur of movement out of the corner of her eye and drove her knee into the girl’s side, a resounding _crack_ echoing in the room as she swung her fist under her opponent’s chin, forcing her head to snap back as she collapsed. 

The girl whose back she had kicked a moment before had crawled to her knees and was attempting to stand. Nat turned her glittering green eyes on her and flipped gracefully through the air, landing with her full weight on top of her and driving the hard point of her elbow into her back, drawing a scream from her throat which was swiftly silenced when Nat hooked an arm around her throat, applying a choke hold until the girl passed out. Rolling off her, Nat had only one opponent left: her headbutt victim. She gracefully dodged her opponent, slipping nimbly behind her and winding the girl’s long braid around her own throat and strangling her with it, looking at the wide, panicked eyes of the brunette with cool detachment as the girl’s eyes rolled into the back of her head and she fell limply to the floor. 

Turning gracefully, Nat proceeded to the edge of the training area and presented herself, kneeling before her usual instructor Madame B and the guest trainer she had been working with for the past three months: the Winter Soldier. 

Madame B surveyed her critically, not a flicker of emotion showing on her face. 

“What do you think?” she asked, directing her question to the Winter Soldier. 

He shrugged noncommittally. The girl was good, ruthless certainly. The Red Room instructors had trained her well. But when it came down to a mission, could she do what needed to be done? 

He turned to Madame B. 

“She has done well,” he said quietly. “But training is one thing, the mission another. She must be steel," he said, indicating his cybernetic arm. 

Madame B paused thoughtfully. She suspected his arm was more likely made of a titanium alloy. Steel was too heavy for the full range of motion he was able to achieve with it. But perhaps his idea had merit. What was training without will? The will to act. 

She motioned for one of Nat’s earlier opponents to step forward with an impatient wave of her hand. 

Nat rose gracefully to her feet as the Winter Soldier handed her a small pistol. She weighed it in her hand. It would be loaded with blanks, it always was, she thought cynically. She didn’t need any more tests or training. She was ready, she told herself. 

“Eliminate the target,” the Winter Soldier said coldly. 

Nat aimed the small gun immediately, showing no hesitation, though she wanted to roll her eyes at the theatrics. It was loaded with blanks, and that wasn’t a target. It was Tatyana, her roommate, her sparring partner. 

_Whatever,_ she thought, bored with the endless tests of the Red Room. She would complete the demonstration and if she didn’t hesitate, they would say she was ready. She aimed the pistol and fired twice. _Happy,_ she wanted to say, but the red blood slowly blooming across Tatyana’s chest sent a wave of shock through her. These were real bullets. It was real blood pooling on the floor and Tatyana was really... _dead._ Nat swallowed the horror ballooning inside her and quickly shuttered her expression before Madame B, or the Winter Soldier saw. _You’re marble, you’re steel,_ she told herself, turning back to her instructors with a forced calm. 

The Winter Soldier nodded with a sort of grim satisfaction and holstered the gun. 

“Be ready at 0400," he said quietly, as Madame B dismissed her without a word. 

* * *

Nat sat on the edge of her bed, keeping her expression carefully neutral in case someone was watching. Someone was always watching here. 

Tatyana’s empty bed drew her eye and Nat swallowed hard. She’d killed her. Killed her friend. No, her _opponent,_ she reminded herself. Black Widows didn’t have friends, they only had prey. 

Her dreams were of red, a ledger dripping in blood, Tatyana’s name scrawled across the page. Then 0400 came and with it, the Winter Soldier. 

“Dress," he ordered, flinging a pair of khaki trousers and a cotton shirt at her. “Move out in ten.” 

Nat dressed quickly, surprised at the choice of clothing. Granted, it was summer in Russia. But she had expected to be kitted out in ops gear, perhaps something like the Winter Soldier’s black vest, or at least to be given a thigh holster like his. The holster on his right leg held two small pistols and she had often wondered at that configuration when he had trained with her these past few months. 

He slid into the driver’s seat of a small, black Lada Priora sedan, indicating that Nat should sit in the front passenger seat where he could keep an eye on her. 

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“Seatbelt," he instructed. 

Nat rolled her eyes but complied, buckling her seatbelt, then repeated her question. 

“Where are we going?” she said again. 

“Private airstrip," the Winter Soldier shrugged. 

“And where _after_ that?” Nat persisted. 

“You don’t need to know yet," the Winter Soldier replied. 

“How long will it take?” Nat asked, privately hoping that wherever they were going was crowded with lots of people, then maybe she could get away and not have to kill any more people for Madame B or the Winter Soldier. 

“The flight is twenty-one hours. No more questions," the Winter Soldier said, the tone of his voice allowing no further argument. 

Nat lapsed into huffy silence, stymied by his icy personality. What did she expect from someone called the _Winter_ Soldier? 

They arrived at the airstrip at long last, where the Winter Soldier was handed a file containing his orders. A pilot in a navy blue blazer accompanied them to the aircraft - a Cessna 172 Skyhawk. His name was Henrik, and he worked for Hydra like the Winter Soldier. 

* * *

More than twenty-three hours later, they finally arrived at their destination. Nat had decided she quite liked flying. Takeoff had been worrisome, speeding along the runway at breakneck speed, and then the terrifying tilt of lift-off… but then they’d been airborne and sailed effortlessly through the sky. There had been a short stop-over in Dubai to refuel, then they had taken to the air again, finally landing at an airport in Sokovia. They were hurried past security, the Winter Soldier’s weapons even passing unchecked thanks to the carry permits, documents and passports provided by Hydra. Then Nat, the Winter Soldier and Henrik piled into a black Subaru Forester, driven by yet another Hydra operative to a hidden base. 

They must be near a railway line of some sort, Nat realised after she had been shown to her room: a windowless concrete rectangle with a cot and blanket and not much else. The Winter Soldier had tossed a protein bar and a water bottle to her before leaving with his men and locking the door. Nat was alone. She should rest or eat something, she knew that, but her brain was buzzing with questions: _Who was her target? When would she be briefed on the mission? What was the Winter Soldier doing right now? Where was she going after this? What had the target done to catch the attention of Hydra and the Red Room? What was her role in all this? Had they buried Tatyana yet? How many more people would she have to kill?_ The questions circled round and round for hours before the Winter Soldier finally came back to retrieve her. 

He led her to an underground parking garage and gestured for her to enter a black jeep. She slid into the passenger seat and waited, nervous energy thrumming through her veins. But the Winter Soldier gave no explanation, not a single word left his mouth. He simply started the ignition, put the jeep into gear and drove in silence for what seemed like hours to Nat, who was growing more unnerved with every passing minute. The Winter Soldier appeared to have that effect on people. He was formidably armed, had the cold eyes and easy grace of a practised killer and it was impossible to see what he was thinking. Nat was well practiced at reading her opponents to find weak spots she could use. The Winter Soldier was someone she couldn’t figure out and he didn’t have any weak spots that she could see. Perhaps that was what was so unnerving about him. She was out of her depth with him, and she knew it. 

Dusk was approaching by the time the Winter Soldier stopped the jeep, pulling into a small dirt parking lot, shaded by trees. He surveyed the area with his keen eyes, finding nothing amiss. They only had a small window in which to carry out their orders: eliminate. The target was already here. He came here every day at 0600 to sit on a bench under a tree and pray to his god. No god would save him from Hydra tonight. 

He wasn’t by any means a challenging target for the Winter Soldier. In his repertoire of successful assassinations, this Catholic Priest wouldn’t even crack the top ten for difficulty in removing him from the playing field. He was old, untrained in the fighting arts, and he was predictable. That alone would ensure his demise. He had made an enemy of Hydra by agreeing to testify against a government Hydra had recently destabilised and subsequently overthrown with the assistance of Russian spies, filling it with Hydra and KGB operatives. The priest must die for his betrayal.

But the orders were clear: the target was not the Winter Soldier’s to eliminate. This target was to be a test for one of the most promising students of the Black Widow Program. Nat’s time to prove herself had come and it was she who must eliminate the target. The Winter Soldier was here in a supervisory capacity only. His role was to carry the mission report back to Hydra. 

He passed Nat a photograph of her target and a knife from his belt. The implication was clear. If it wasn’t, the word ‘eliminate’ scrawled across the top of the photograph certainly was. Nat studied the picture. He had kind eyes, she thought, perhaps he was somebody’s grandfather. Did he have a family that would miss him? 

“Who is he?” she asked before she could stop herself. 

“He is a target. His name and background are of no relevance,” the Winter Soldier said sternly. “You will get close to him and eliminate him. No questions, no hesitation. We have orders. Now go,” he commanded. 

Nat slipped the knife into her pocket, leaving the photograph behind as she darted nimbly through the trees that shaded the surrounding area. She spotted the target in seconds, sitting on a bench under the shade of a tree. His eyes were closed and his head bent as though he were sleeping. She inched closer to him, her feet moving noiselessly across the uneven ground. 

_Get close to him,_ the Winter Soldier had said. Fine, she would, Nat decided, gripping the knife in her pocket. 

“Excuse me,” she called to him quietly. 

The old man looked up at her, blinking confusedly. “Can I help you, my dear?” he asked. 

Nat hesitated, that would later be listed as mistake number one in the mission report. 

“Are you lost?” the kindly old priest asked, gesturing for Nat to sit beside him. “You called out to me, you must have had a reason," he added when she remained silent.

Nat’s breath caught in her throat. Why did he have to be so nice? It would be easier if he were rude or as cruel as some of the Red Room instructors. 

“What’s your name?” she asked, sitting beside him and looking around nervously. 

“My parishioners call me Father John,” he answered with a smile. 

Nat felt a grim satisfaction at that. Now she knew something the Red Room and the Winter Soldier didn’t want her to know. 

“Someone wants you dead,” she blurted out. 

“Really, young lady, whatever could give you that idea?” he said with a little chuckle. 

“It’s true. They want me to--” Nat hesitated. 

“Want you to what?” Father John asked perplexedly. 

Nat opened her mouth but never got the chance to answer, as the priest’s face exploded outward, drenching her in a shower of blood, her ears ringing from the blast of a shotgun. The Winter Soldier had come up from behind them and fired at the priest’s head at point-blank range. Horror overwhelmed her before a metal fist slammed into the side of her head, knocking her out cold. 

* * *

When Nat next opened her eyes, she was back in her quarters in the Red Room, both wrists handcuffed to the metal frame of her bed, Madame B looking down at her coldly. 

“Where’s--?” Nat started, her speech slurred. She wondered if they had sedated her after she’d been knocked out. 

“The Winter Soldier has been wiped and returned to the cryogenic chambers,” Madame B told her coldly. “You won’t be seeing him. You failed your mission,” she added coldly. 

“I-” Nat couldn’t get the words out, fear coiling in the pit of her stomach. She _had_ failed, she thought, so why wasn’t she dead? 

“I’m very disappointed,” Madame B said softly. 

“What are you going to do to me?” Nat asked, trying not to look as terrified as she felt. 

“I’m going to make you _unbreakable,_ ” Madame B announced. “You’re my favourite, Natalia. You have such promise. Your problem is your mind. You question things; that is why you hesitate, and that is why you failed your mission.”

Nat waited silently for the blow to fall. 

“Fortunately, thanks to our friend, the Winter Soldier, I have found the solution,” Madame B said, as four Hydra operatives entered the room and uncuffed Nat, escorting her to the place they had set up on Madame B’s orders. 

A Memory Suppressing Machine stood primed and ready for Madame B’s most promising student. Nat struggled as they fitted the machine to her head, binding her arms and legs tightly for the memory wiping procedure. 

“If you struggle, it will take longer,” Madame B said softly, brushing away a tear that escaped Nat’s eye. “You will be remade Natalia, and then you will be _unbreakable._ ” 

Nat watched her instructor walk away as the wiping process began, her own screams of pain the last thing she would remember for a long, long time. 


	5. Alone Together

_September 19th 2000_

It looked like it would be a very memorable 21st birthday, Hermione Granger realised, and not for the reason she had hoped. When the day had started, she had been looking forward to an evening with her friends, a fancy dinner, presents, cake; she even had her birthday drink planned out: a fruity cranberry and orange cocktail with raspberry liqueur, with a cherry and a twist of orange peel on top. 

But regrettably, things had not gone to plan. Hermione had barely put the finishing touch on her hair (it had taken nearly a full bottle of Sleekeazy’s Hair Potion to tame her wild mane) when a swirling silver Patronus had landed in front of her. She recognised the bumbling baby elephant Patronus immediately. It belonged to Neville of course. Hermione smiled on seeing it, but the message it brought did not contain birthday greetings. 

“Hermione, I’m not going to make it tonight, I’m sorry. Gran’s in a bad way. I’m at St Mungo’s now,” Neville’s voice said, the baby elephant fading into silver mist. 

Hermione felt a coil of fear rising in her stomach at Neville’s words. If something happened to Augusta… Neville had no other family he could count on to support him. His Uncle Algie and Auntie Enid lived abroad. His parents’ mental states had not improved significantly in the nearly twenty years since Bellatrix Lestrange and her Death Eater associates had attacked them. Alice and Frank had little memory of their own son, and Hermione doubted whether they remembered Neville’s grandmother either. She couldn’t leave him alone at a time like this. What sort of friend would she be if she did?

Hermione conjured her own otter Patronus and sent a message to all the party invitees to inform them that it was cancelled due to a family emergency and apologised for the short notice. Then without further ado, she stepped over to the glowing fireplace in the living room of her small flat, tossed a handful of floo powder into the grate, and stepped forward, crying “St Mungo’s!" 

She vanished in a whirl of green flames, sliding out of the much larger fireplace in the Reception area of the magical hospital. She joined the queue of wizards and witches waiting at the reception desk, tapping her foot impatiently as she waited for the Welcome Witch to get to her. At last it was her turn.

“Welcome to Saint Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, how can I be of assistance?” the Welcome Witch said in a bored, less than welcoming tone. 

“I got a message that Augusta Longbottom was being admitted. Which room is she in?” Hermione asked, resisting the temptation to grab the witch’s record book and find the answer herself. Patience wasn’t her forte. 

“Are you family?” the Welcome Witch asked in the same bored tone, not even bothering to look up at Hermione. 

“Y-yes,” Hermione lied, knowing full well that hospital staff would only let family in. “She’s my great aunt,” she invented wildly.

“Right, Bed 4, Euphemia Potter Ward, Second Floor,” the Welcome Witch said, waving her on. 

Hermione nodded her thanks and proceeded to the stairwell, nearly tripping on her long skirts as she climbed the stairs to the second floor, continuing down the corridor until she came to a set of doors marked ‘Euphemia Potter Ward.’ 

She pushed through the doors gently, slipping quietly into the room. Only three of the eight beds in the room were occupied. Adjacent to the bed nearest the door was a chair occupied by a young man with an anxious, rounded face. 

“Neville,” Hermione said softly as she approached. “How’s she doing?”

Neville’s head jerked up in surprise. “Hermione, what are you doing here? You’ll miss your party,” he said anxiously. 

“I cancelled it,” Hermione shrugged casually, conjuring a chair so she could sit beside him. 

“Hermione,” Neville said quietly, shaking his head. “You only get one birthday a year.” 

“And I’m choosing to spend it with my friend,” she said stubbornly as Neville shook his head in disbelief. 

“Well, thank you,” Neville said gratefully. 

“What’s your Gran’s diagnosis?” Hermione asked. 

“Apoplexy. They won’t know the extent of the damage until she wakes up. _If_ she wakes up,” Neville said glumly. 

“Stroke?” Hermione said. “That’s what the Muggles call it,” she explained. “I’m sure she will wake up, Neville. She’s strong, you know. Takes after her grandson,” she added playfully. 

Neville managed a small smile. “She’s all I’ve got, Hermione. Mum and Dad have never really been _present._ My Gran was quite intimidating when I was little, but she really cares about me.” 

“Whatever happens, you won’t be alone,” Hermione promised, staying with him for many hours until Healers came to gently remind them that visiting hours were over. 

“She’ll be okay,” Neville said as they walked to the Apparition point together. Hermione hoped his gran would be, but she kept her doubts to herself, knowing that Neville needed hope and sympathy more than medical statistics she had read. 

“Owl me or send a Patronus if you need anything,” Hermione said. “And I’ll be there.”

Neville nodded and murmured a goodnight before apparating back to his flat. 

* * *

The following days were some of the most difficult of poor Neville’s life. Hermione returned to St Mungo’s with him several times to visit Augusta, whose condition was doubly heartbreaking for Neville. 

While his gran had regained consciousness, the vigorous health she had previously enjoyed had deteriorated alarmingly. She was now paralysed down the entire right side of her body, her speech was severely impacted and she struggled to get out even a single word. Worse still, she appeared to be suffering from a form of mental confusion. The Healers weren’t sure she understood anything they said to her. It was a serious blow to Neville, having spent most of his life with his parents unable to recognise or remember him. 

The Healers informed Neville that due to her age, Augusta’s likelihood of recovery or surviving past a few months was unlikely. 

“Neville,” Hermione said sympathetically, longing to comfort him. 

“I just need a minute to myself,” Neville managed through his tears, disappearing out the door. 

Hermione watched him go with regret, her heart aching for him as she turned to Augusta, just happening to catch the instant a teardrop rolled down her wrinkled old cheek. 

_She does understand,_ Hermione realised, going immediately to her. 

“Mrs Longbottom,” she said gently, taking the old lady’s hands in her own and fighting the painful lump that rose in her throat. “I’m so sorry this happened to you.”

“N-n-n-n--” Augusta mumbled, her speech slurred. 

Hermione desperately wished she could understand her. She wanted so badly to reassure her. But what was N-n-n-n? Then it hit her. 

“Neville’s going to be fine. You all will,” Hermione said with a nod, squeezing Augusta’s hands. “I’m going to fix it. I--I’m going to get you your son back. And Neville’s mum,” she promised, hot tears blinding her. “I’m going to make it right. I’ll save them, you’ll see,” she promised. 

Tears traced their way down Augusta’s face as she watched Hermione go. It had taken almost a year, but she was finally ready to risk it all and use the Time-Turner.


	6. What Time Is It?

_ 22nd September 2000 _

“So, how does this work?” Hermione asked, determined not to let her nerves get the best of her. She was determined to go through with this. Still, the Time-Turner Eleanor Bones had presented her with twelve months ago was a different model to the one she had grown accustomed to using in her third year at Hogwarts. 

“You’re familiar with Protean charms," Madame Marchbanks stated proudly. “Yes, I remember examining your wand work for your Charms O.W.L, Miss Granger. Very impressive indeed. This works in a similar way, dear.” 

“Yes,” Narcissa agreed. “All you have to do is tap it with your wand to change the date and activate it with the passphrase. You can return to the present in the same way.” 

“Have you decided on a date?” Andromeda asked, giving Hermione’s shoulder a comforting squeeze. 

“1971,” Hermione murmured. 

“The year before she was sold to the Dark Lord,” Narcissa said grimly. “Good choice. I don’t think she’d ever hated my father more than when he cost her Amos.” 

“If I can make a suggestion,” Andromeda said softly. “It will be impossible for you to get into Black Lodge to see Bellatrix. Our father kept her under his eye day and night after he found out she’d gotten engaged to Amos, even after she broke it off. But on the Winter Solstice that year, at Father's request, Uncle Orion and Aunt Walburga held a Yule Ball at Grimmauld Place. They hoped to find Bellatrix a suitor who would marry her after she turned twenty-one in the following May.” 

“Rodolphus Lestrange was at this Ball?” Hermione guessed. 

“Yes, but so was Bellatrix," Narcissa said. “It was the one time she was out of Father’s sight, mingling with other people. It was a twelve-day party, and there were  _ barrels _ of mulled wine and cider being drunk by the guests. You could slip in very easily, and you’d have twelve days to--”

“Convince Bellatrix not to let Voldemort make her into a murdering psychopath?” Hermione said grimly. 

“I didn’t say it would be easy. Bellatrix wasn’t the trusting sort,” Narcissa said. “But that party would give you your best chance.”

“Fine,” Hermione agreed. “What was the date?” 

“The party ran from the winter solstice on the twenty-first of December until New Year’s Day,” Andromeda told her. 

“Make sure you dress  _ appropriately _ ,” Narcissa added. “You don’t want to stand out. In fact, here,” she said slowly, transfiguring Hermione’s casual shirt and jeans with her wand. 

Glancing in the drawing-room mirror, Hermione realised she was now wearing a black evening dress pinned with a diamond brooch, with a long skirt that flowed gracefully to the floor, the effect compounded by swirling pale silver chiffon sleeves that were almost floor-length, resembling an elegant, virtually transparent cape when she moved, the graceful hem of her skirt swishing against the floor. Hermione found she quite liked it. 

“Ah, that really does take me back,” Madame Marchbanks commented. “Be sure to say hello to me at the party, dear,” she added with a cheeky wink that reminded Hermione very much of Nymphadora Tonks. 

Hermione picked up her beaded bag and wand, as Andromeda slipped the chain of the Time-Turner around her neck and fastened the little clasp. 

“Just about ready I think,” Narcissa commented, securing a charm bracelet around Hermione’s left wrist. “Bella gave me this when I started Hogwarts,” she said quietly. “Maybe it will help convince her. We can hope anyway.” 

“Don’t forget this,” Andromeda said, shrinking the pensieve down and slipping it into Hermione’s beaded bag. “Just in case she needs extra proof,” she added quietly.

Hermione nodded, almost too filled with nerves to speak.

“Wish me luck,” she said with a nervous laugh, pointing her wand at the Time-Turner and watching as the numbers  _ 21-12-1971 _ glowed red on the gold band that encircled the little hourglass. “ _ Moirai, _ ” she murmured, the Time-Turner spinning in her hand as she uttered the passphrase. The room dissolved in a whirl of sound and colour, a strange sensation gripping Hermione’s body, as if she were moving very fast, but at the same time not moving at all. Anchored in place. 

The spinning stopped after what seemed an age and for an instant, she almost felt as though she would vomit all over the drawing-room floor. 

Glancing around the room, she saw that it was filled with people, though not the same people she had been with a moment ago, or rather, the people she would be with twenty-nine years from now.  _ Merlin,  _ this time travel insanity was already doing her head in, she thought, tucking the Time-Turner discreetly beneath the lace bodice of her dress.

“You alright there, miss?” came a small voice from beside her, and Hermione looked down into a pair of sparkling grey eyes, framed by silken locks of dark hair. The boy couldn’t be more than ten or twelve years old, Hermione thought to herself. 

“Just fine,” she answered, with a brave attempt at a smile. There was something familiar about the boy, and she ventured a guess as to his identity. “Regulus, is it?” 

“Nope," the boy answered, tossing his head proudly. “Reggie’s too little for parties. He’s only ten. I’m twelve though, so I get to stay up late,” he declared. “I’m Sirius, by the way. Sirius Orion Black,” he said with a charming little bow. 

“I’m Hermione,” she replied, her head spinning. 

_ Sirius.  _ How could she have forgotten Sirius would be here at Grimmauld Place too? Knowing what lay in his future, Hermione was half tempted to grab him and take him back to the year 2000 with her to spare him the pain of Azkaban.  _ Kidnapping, Hermione. You’re talking about kidnapping a twelve-year-old,  _ she reminded herself sternly. 

“So,  _ twelve, _ ” she said. “You must be at Hogwarts then,” she guessed as Sirius nodded. 

“I’m on school holidays,” Sirius shrugged. “I would’ve gone to James’s house for Christmas but dad made me come home for Cousin Bella’s stupid party,” he grumbled. 

“Who’s James?” Hermione asked innocently, though she knew perfectly well who Sirius was referring to. 

“My best friend,” Sirius said proudly. “Well,  _ oldest  _ friend,” he corrected himself hastily. “Remus is my best friend too. And Peter. But I met James first, so he’s my oldest friend.” 

“I bet you all get up to plenty of mischief together,” Hermione said with a grin. 

“Sometimes,” Sirius admitted, trying and failing to appear apologetic. 

“Hot date, Cousin?” a voice called and Hermione’s head whipped around as a tall girl with long, wavy, black ringlets joined them. 

“She’s not my date,” Sirius mumbled, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment. 

“Could’ve fooled me,” the girl said, looking Hermione up and down, evidently approving of the dress Narcissa had chosen for her. 

“Hermione, this is my cousin,” Sirius said politely. 

“Bellatrix Black,” she said with a graceful curtsey. “Come on, I’ll give you the grand tour,” she said, grasping Hermione’s arm and leading her away from Sirius. 

Hermione gave him an apologetic look and a halfhearted wave. 

The scar on her arm seemed to be throbbing again and she gritted her teeth, certain that this would not end well as she was swept along by Bellatrix. 


	7. This Used To Be The Future

“So, who are you here with?” Bellatrix asked Hermione. It was her dozenth question and Hermione was beginning to feel a bit like a bug under a microscope. 

“I came alone,” Hermione shrugged, snagging a glass of cider from a passing elf. 

“You have no escort?” Bellatrix said, as though she couldn’t believe her ears. “Well, your parents are very progressive, aren’t they?” 

“Guess so,” Hermione said, sipping at her drink.

“Bellatrix!” a commanding voice called as Lord Cygnus Black appeared, leading a pair of young men over. “Some gentlemen I would like you to meet,” he announced. “This is Rodolphus and Rabastan of House Lestrange.” 

Bellatrix dipped her head and curtseyed gracefully with her father’s eyes fixed on her. “Pleased to make your acquaintance,” she said stiffly. 

“The pleasure is mine,” Rabastan said, kissing her knuckles.

“And mine,” Rodolphus said, offering her his arm. “Might I escort the lady to the refreshments table?” 

Bellatrix looked disgusted, but dared not refuse. 

Hermione slipped her wand into her hand, the movement concealed by her long sleeves as she cast three non-verbal confundus charms simultaneously: Cygnus, Rabastan and Rodolphus each jumping a little as the spells hit them and looking around confusedly. 

“Perhaps another time,” Hermione said archly. “Interrupting a lady’s conversation is  _ so  _ very rude, don’t you agree?”

“I agree,” Rabastan said instantly.

“It is," Rodolphus concurred.

“The height of rudeness,” Lord Cygnus added, appalled. 

“Best run along then, maybe you two would like to dance with Lord Cygnus,” Hermione suggested, trying hard not to giggle at her own daring. 

“Come to think of it, I would,” Rodolphus said thoughtfully. 

“ _ I  _ would be honoured,” Rabastan said, offering Lord Cygnus his arm.

“I would be  _ more  _ honoured,” Rodolphus argued. 

“I would be the most honoured and I’m younger _ and  _ more handsome,” Rabastan continued, elbowing his brother out of the way. 

“Come on,” Hermione muttered. “Before it wears off,” she added with a little giggle, leading Bellatrix away through the crowds of people mingling in the drawing-room. 

“Before  _ what  _ wears off? What did you do?” Bellatrix asked curiously, not looking the least bit annoyed.

“Confundus charms,” Hermione shrugged, trying not to look too pleased with herself. 

“Why would you do that?” Bellatrix asked. “When my father finds out, he’ll be furious.” 

“Thought you could use the help. They were absolutely insufferable. I can undo it if you'd rather,” Hermione said slyly. 

“Oh  _ Merlin,  _ don’t!” Bellatrix said with a laugh, watching from across the room as Rabastan and Rodolphus both attempted to waltz with Lord Cygnus. “Why would you help me, Hermione?” Bellatrix asked doubtfully. 

“That’s what I was sent here for,” Hermione said cynically before she even realised the words had left her mouth. 

“Sent?” Bellatrix repeated, looking at her suspiciously. “Sent by who? To do what?” 

Hermione hesitated for a moment, not having meant to disclose her true purpose so soon. But the game was up, it seemed. 

“Sent - by your sisters,” Hermione said slowly, showing her Narcissa’s charm bracelet. “From the future,” she continued, drawing out the Time-Turner for proof. “To save you,” she finished simply. 

Bellatrix looked at her wide-eyed. 

“Save me from what exactly?” she asked. 

“From yourself,” Hermione said quietly. “From what you become.” 

“And what’s that?” Bellatrix asked, dread showing on her face.

Hermione paused, thinking over the memories Andromeda had shown her.

“Crazy,” she stated. “A torturer. A murderer. Fourteen years in Azkaban will unhinge you completely. Your own blood won’t recognise you,” she said grimly. 

“My own blood?” Bellatrix repeated, the expression sounding odd to her ears. 

“ _ Accio,”  _ Hermione muttered, summoning a particular book from her bag. 

“ _ Nature’s Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy,”  _ Bellatrix said, reading the cover aloud. 

“Fourth Edition, published in 1985 by Obscurus Books,” Hermione added, handing it to Bellatrix. 

Bellatrix quickly flipped to the chapter marked ‘Black, a Noble and Most Ancient House,' searching for her name. 

“I marry  _ Rodolphus?”  _ she said, disgusted. 

“Look there,” Hermione said, pointing to a black line leading from Sirius Black and Marlene McKinnon to a third name, the only child of their union: Hermione Jean Black. 

“You? You’re my--” Bellatrix stammered, astounded. 

“I was born on the nineteenth of September, 1979. I was two and a half when you and Rodolphus and Sirius were sent to Azkaban for murder. My birth mother, Marlene, was among your murder victims. You were also convicted of causing the permanent mental incapacitation of Frank and Alice Longbottom. You tortured them into insanity,” Hermione said grimly, trying not to sound too accusatory. “Regulus had disappeared and there was no family willing to take me in. Albus Dumbledore arranged for a Muggle family to adopt me and changed my name to Hermione Jean Granger. He modified Sirius’s memories to protect me from you, and everyone like you. He even went so far as to remove my mother's name and mine from the Black family tapestry. Even Narcissa and Andromeda didn’t know. I only found out after Dumbledore died, when his spells died with him. I came here in 1997 and took an old copy of that book from the family elf. You tortured me nearly nine months later and you never recognised me,” Hermione finished, rolling up her sleeve to reveal her forearm, deeply scarred with the word  _ Mudblood  _ carved into her flesh. 

Bellatrix paled and squeezed her eyes shut tight. 

“If that’s true, why would you want to save me?” Bellatrix whispered, the horror of it washing over her. 

“I didn’t want to. The Bellatrix I knew was a monster,” Hermione admitted. “But you don’t have to be.” 

“Look around you, Hermione. I was never going to have any other choice,” Bellatrix said bitterly, glaring at the pureblood suitors her parents had assembled to bargain for her hand. 

“I’m giving you a choice now,” Hermione said stubbornly. 

“What is it you want to do exactly? To stop me from killing people I suppose?” Bellatrix said cynically. 

“I made a promise to Augusta Longbottom that I would save her family from you. But in the future, you’re also going to kill Sirius and Marlene. I want a chance to know my birth parents.”

“So you’re not as altruistic and heroic as you seem, Hermione. This was never about me," Bellatrix declared.

“It is though. You will be the root cause of so much death and pain and suffering. And it begins here. Your parents will force you to marry Rodolphus and he will sell you to Lord Voldemort. You will be so tortured and twisted that you won’t even recognise yourself. You will become a murderer and you will go to Azkaban for it. You will die a twisted psychopath, Bellatrix.  _ Unless,  _ we do something to change that," Hermione told her. 

“How do we change that?” Bellatrix asked hopelessly.

“We start by getting you away from here,” Hermione said decisively.

“With  _ that _ ?” Bellatrix asked, glancing at the Time-Turner around Hermione’s neck.

“Yes,” Hermione said. “Maybe we can start with saving Frank and Alice,” she suggested. 

“Won’t that mess with the timeline? What if we make it worse by changing something?” Bellatrix said doubtfully. 

“I’ve spent the last year studying time magic,” Hermione said reassuringly. “I won’t bore you with the details, but by coming back here, I’ve effectively created an alternate timeline. I can’t return to the original timeline I’m from, even if I jump forward to the exact day, month and year. I’ve already changed it permanently by coming here. There’s no going back, not really. A new one has already been created in its place.” 

“Okay,” Bellatrix said slowly, not having understood much of Hermione’s explanation. “If you’re sure,” she said uncertainly. 

“I am. Do you trust me?” Hermione asked. 

“Well, at this point, you seem like my best option,” Bellatrix said grimly, handing Hermione  _ Nature’s Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy  _ back. 

“Gee, thanks,” Hermione said sarcastically, slipping the book back into her bag. 

“You’re welcome,” Bellatrix said with a grin as Hermione slipped the golden chain of the Time-Turner around Bellatrix’s neck. 

“Ready?” Hermione asked, not waiting for an answer before she tapped the Time-Turner with her wand. 

“ _ Moirai, _ ” she murmured, the Time Turner spinning in her hand, as the room dissolved around them, an invisible force pulling them forward like a magnet. 


	8. Mission Report

_March 10 2004_

It had been over four years since the Mercenary, Regulus Black, had failed his mission. The subsequent mission report prepared by his handler, Alexei Vasiliev had been most illuminating and provided Hydra with a crucial piece of information. Four years of research into soul bonds and their identifying marks had revealed a potential flaw in Hydra’s organisation. Even their most elite assets were vulnerable to this flaw, as was evidenced by the Mercenary’s defeat.

The Mercenary’s autopsy had revealed the initials of his soulmate, branded into his heart. From this, Hydra scientists had been able to theorise that other assets had soul bonds too. This had led to widespread medical testing of all Hydra operatives and assets. Magnetic Resonance Imaging or MRI scans as they were more commonly known, had produced detailed images of each subject’s heart and revealed the identifying marks of thousands of individuals and potential soul mates across the globe. 

This information spelled trouble for Hydra. As had been proven by the Mercenary’s failure, all the training, conditioning and memory wipes in the world could not erase a soul bond. At best, an asset would hesitate and be unable to eliminate their target. At worst, if the conditioning and mission protocols of an asset failed, the asset may start to remember things, not just about their past, but about Hydra - names, ranks, facility locations, past missions… Just one failed mission, one asset’s conditioning crumbling under the force of a soul bond and Hydra would be left vulnerable, their secrets exposed for the world to see. 

The simplest solution was to eliminate an asset’s soulmate. No bond, no potential risk of failure. Hydra had the initials of each soul pairing of their assets, right down to the lowest level operatives. But that presented its own set of issues. Just one set of initials, two or three letters, could represent thousands of people worldwide, tens of thousands of targets and only one was the target Hydra needed eliminating. Mass assassinations. It was risky, it could call unwanted attention to them. Unless they blamed it all on the Russians - the KGB. It was their usual fallback plan and it just might work. Especially if they called in the Black Widow. 

Four additional years of training in the Red Room and conditioning with the Memory Suppressing Machine had made a marked difference in the assassin’s performance. She never hesitated now, she was ruthless and she was ready. It was time for her to be reunited with the Winter Soldier, Hydra deemed. The time was ripe for a new mission. The two together - Winter and the Widow surely couldn’t fail. And if they did, if either were compromised, both assassins' histories led back to Russia. It was all too easy. The order was made for the Black Widow to be moved to the Siberian facility and debriefed in time for the Winter Soldier to be removed from his cryogenic chamber and prepped for the mission. Hail, Hydra. 

* * *

_June 1 2004_

Nick Fury tossed the reports onto his desk, frustrated. In the last three months, the number of assassinations that cropped up on S.H.I.E.L.D.’s radar had quadrupled. He had teams of agents working around the clock and still he was no closer to finding out who had ordered the hits on these people or why. What was the connection? Different ages, nationalities, jobs, men, women. The methods of killing were almost as varied as the victims themselves, making it practically impossible to determine the assassin’s MO and figure out who had hired them. He scanned the reports again, all he needed was a clue, some small detail that he had overlooked perhaps. 

_Brian Baehnisch and Hannah Baker – shot in the chest from more than two thousand yards away. Clearly the work of a trained sniper._

_Betty Bletchley and Harrison Bates – cause of death: strangulation._

_Briar Bagshaw and Herbert Blank – died in an explosion. S.H.I.E.L.D ballistics experts determined that the killer used a grenade launcher._

_Bernhard Bobbin and Harry Bleeker – both victims shot in the throat at close range._

_Berkley Bahr and Hector Boeing – autopsy confirmed the cause of death for both victims was a broken neck._

_Bonnie Boot and Hamilton Boesen – both victims died of stab wounds to the chest and upper abdomen._

_Bernard Baillie and Hughdella Bolt – suspected foul play. Both victims had been thrown from sixth-floor windows in the same hotel. Suicide had been ruled out._

_Barry Broadmoor and Hilda Bosche – death by train. Witnesses reported seeing a woman with red hair and a man with a metal arm chasing the victims onto the tracks before the train had struck and killed both victims._

Could the man and the woman described by witnesses be the assassins he was searching for? Fury pondered that for a moment before continuing to read. 

_Beatrice Broadmoor and Helene Barlacz – cause of death - crush injuries and heavy internal bleeding. Both victims had been found buried in the rubble caused by an explosion._

_Brian Broadmoor and Hazel Barret – two car accidents on the same road in the space of an hour. The tyres of both vehicles had been shot out, causing one car to crash into a tree and the other to go over the edge of a nearby cliff. Both victims were pronounced dead at the scene._

_Bill Barnes and Harry Boss – died of stab wounds to the chest and upper abdomen. Injuries consistent with those of earlier victims (Bonnie Boot and Hamilton Boesen), possibly carried out by the same assassin._

_Bob Barnes and Henry Bayleigh - both Olympic swimmers who had been found dead on the shores of the same beach. Cause of death: drowning. Local authorities ruled the deaths as accidental but Agent Coulson disagreed with their findings and believed the deaths to be cleverly disguised assassinations._

_Brian Barnes – cause of death: brain swelling caused by a crushed skull. The autopsy had not revealed what kind of weapon the assailant used. Further examination by the country’s top mortician indicated the victim’s head was crushed by extreme force applied by a human hand._

Fury blinked at that last one. What kind of man possessed the strength to crush another man’s skull with his bare hands? Guns, explosions, broken necks and stab wounds he could deal with, but that last report worried him. S.H.I.E.L.D had eyes on several potential risks across the globe - there was more than one party in the world who had attempted to recreate the Super Soldier Serum. Thankfully, none had been successful so far. Fury buried his face in his hands. He was tired and some days this job got to him. The days when the bodies piled up, seemingly without cause. Just senseless death and violence. He was going home early, he decided. He’d give the reports another look in the morning. Maybe Coulson would dig something up in the meantime. He’d never failed to come through yet. 

* * *

_October 30 2004_

Nat surveyed the dusty bunker she and the Winter Soldier were currently resting in. It was a S.H.I.E.L.D facility that had long since been abandoned by the organisation and now served as one of many Hydra bases. The Winter Soldier sat across from her. He had removed his mask for once and was cleaning his sniper rifle, his movements well practised and methodical, as though he’d done them thousands of times before. Nat watched his face for a moment, memorising it. Not that it mattered. Anything she remembered would be stripped from her mind the next time they reported in to Hydra. 

Bored, Nat circled the room, glancing over the faded wood of the desks, her eyes coming to rest on some framed pictures that still hung on the far wall. ‘Wall of Valor,’ was spelled out in peeling letters above the picture frames. ‘Wall of Defeat,’ Hydra would have called it. Each of the faces in the framed pictures represented an agent fallen in the line of duty. _Failed_ in the line of duty, to her mind. 

One of the pictures caught her eye. A young soldier, the first S.H.I.E.L.D agent to have died. _Bucky Barnes. B.B._ Nat knew those initials. She’d spent months helping the Winter Soldier eliminate targets with the same initials. H.B and B.B. They were the mission. Something in the soldier’s face caught her eye. He seemed familiar, though she couldn’t place him at first. Maybe it was the name, she thought. They had eliminated three iterations of _Barnes_ in the last few weeks alone - Bill, Bob and Brian Barnes. 

Blinding realisation hit her a split second later as she compared the face of the framed picture with the likeness of the man who sat across the room from her. It couldn’t be, could it? The two soldiers were one and the same. Bucky Barnes. B.B. _Her mission_. Nat drew her pistol almost without thinking, aiming it squarely at the Winter Soldier’s chest. 

“What are you doing?” he asked her impatiently, obviously wondering if she’d taken leave of her senses. 

“Following orders,” Nat said calmly, her pistol still trained on him. “You’re my mission, _Bucky.”_

“Who the _hell_ is Bucky?” the Winter Soldier asked in confusion. 

Nat fired two rounds one after the other, just as a blur of movement and swirling colour devolved into the forms of two young women who appeared in front of the Winter Soldier, seemingly out of nowhere. One had long curly raven hair and the other had curls of honey brown. The latter seemed to have caught Nat’s bullets, red blooming across her lower abdomen as she fell to the floor with a moan of pain. 

“Hermione!” the dark-haired girl cried, before drawing her wand from her sleeve and firing jets of light at Nat. 

The Winter Soldier stood then too, drawing a pair of pistols from his side holster and stepping protectively in front of the girl who had taken two bullets for him. Knowing she was out-matched against the Winter Soldier, Nat retreated and fled the S.H.I.E.L.D facility to regroup. Maybe she had been wrong, she thought. Perhaps Bucky Barnes wasn’t her target, but there were other names on the list. Other marks to be eliminated. Her mission was clear. She had orders, and she would comply. 


	9. Who the Hell is Hermione Granger?

_October 30 2004_

Bellatrix watched Hermione’s peacefully sleeping form; her new friend was somehow dwarfed in the big hospital bed, surrounded by white sheets and fluffy pillows, and trolleys of potions in a variety of colours. 

The bullets had been successfully removed from Hermione’s abdomen and the Healers had said she should make a full recovery. Now it was just a waiting game to see when she would wake up. Bella tapped her foot nervously and the man sitting in a chair nearby shot her an irritated look. 

Bella rolled her eyes at him and huffed impatiently. He shouldn’t even be here, she thought sourly. St Seton’s was a wizarding hospital, granted, an American one, but judging from his Muggle weapons, the man was just that, a Muggle. He had no business being here. Hermione wouldn’t have been hurt if it weren’t for him. And if it weren’t for _me,_ she thought guiltily. _If it wasn’t for Hermione travelling back in time to save me, none of this would have happened..._

Bella jumped to her feet, not able to sit still for a second longer. 

“Going to get a cup of tea,” she muttered awkwardly, not addressing the question to anyone in particular and slipping out the door.

The Winter Soldier watched her go, then returned to watching Hermione sleep, his eyes drawn to the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest and the pulse beating in the hollow at the base of her throat. Life still beat within her, a life she had almost sacrificed for his. Why? It was a question he needed answered. 

He didn’t often have questions. Hydra didn’t like questions. They wanted obedience and compliance. Sometimes they asked him a question. Usually, they asked if he was ready to comply with an order. The answer was always ‘yes’ of course. ‘No’ meant pain. Resistance meant misery. Memories meant agony. Failure meant torture. But Hermione meant… Well, he wasn’t sure what she meant, but it wasn't pain, he knew that much. She denoted warmth, protection, safety, beauty… All things that Hydra had taken from him over the years until he forgot what they were or that they even existed. She meant _something_ to him _._ Something important. Something he’d forgotten. Something that drew him to her like a magnet. And he would find out what that something was. He had to. 

* * *

Far away from St Seton’s, yet too close for the Winter Soldier’s comfort, the infamous Black Widow was continuing to eliminate Hydra’s list of targets. She crossed each name off as she went, some dying with a bullet between their eyes, others with a blade to the heart, but all falling at her hands. She surveyed the list, searching for her next target. 

_Bert Bagman and Henry Babb - eliminated._

_Barbara Babyszka and Hans and Heather Boell - eliminated._

_Betty Belby and Hilda Babel - eliminated._

_Brian Belby and Hugh Bore - eliminated._

_Brenda Badenoch and Hope Baden - eliminated_

_Barrie Bellchant and Harold Brake - eliminated._

_Beatrice Bellchant and Helen Bage - eliminated._

_Benjamin Bellchant and Helena Braves - eliminated._

_Bertha Bellchant and Harry and Hazel Breen - eliminated._

_Bellatrix Black and Hermione Black._

  
  


The Black Widow smiled to herself. Her next targets had been identified and she would find and eliminate them immediately. Her mission was almost complete, though she didn’t yet know it. 

* * *

Bellatrix had lingered longer in the hospital cafeteria than she had meant to. A discarded newspaper on a table had caught her eye and she had snatched it up and scanned the headlines, absorbing every piece of information the _New York Natter_ offered. She turned the coffee-stained pages quickly to find the ‘foreign affairs’ section, desperate for news of Britain… Then she noticed the date on the paper and nearly choked on her lukewarm, milky tea. Her eyes widening in shock, she snatched up the paper and hurried back to Hermione’s hospital room.

When she entered, she found Hermione sitting up, awake, and engaged in quiet conversation with the ‘Metal Armed Muggle’ as Bella called him in her head, the man having failed to disclose his true name. 

“Hey,” Hermione said warmly, smiling as Bellatrix approached the bed. Then she caught the expression on Bella’s face and her smile faltered.”What’s wrong?” she asked nervously. 

“This,” Bella said. “Look at the date, Hermione. 2004. _2004,”_ she repeated, handing Hermione the paper and watching as she skimmed the headlines. 

“ _Memorial for Hogwarts Hundred to be Unveiled on Fourth Anniversary,_ ” Hermione read, devastated. In her original timeline, the Hogwarts battle had only resulted in fifty casualties. What had she altered so dreadfully in the timeline to nearly double the number of fatalities? 

“Keep reading,” Bella said quietly as the Winter Soldier retreated to a corner of the room, watching the pair closely.

“ _Potter’s Hunt for Dark Wizards in Albania._ Well, at least he’s alive,” Hermione muttered to herself in a tone of great relief, before turning to the next page. “ _Ministry of Magic Commissions New Auror Taskforce._ About bloody time, they were hopelessly unprepared for You-Know-Who,” Hermione said grimly. 

“You knew the Dark Lord?” Bellatrix asked, awestruck. “What was he like?”

Sensing they were entering dangerous territory, Hermione shrugged. “Obsessed. Cruel. Evil. A murderous psychopath,” she summarised, relishing the disappointment on Bella’s face. Hermione turned her attention back to the paper and continued to read. “ _Fudge Protests Shacklebolt’s Re-Election._ Useless twit. Fudge, I mean,” she added as Bellatrix gave her a blank look. 

“ _Malfoy Opens Manor to War Orphans,”_ Hermione read, glancing at the article, disbelief battling with pride at the evidence that Draco was working to help the less fortunate in the magical community. 

“Malfoy?” Bellatrix repeated. “Lucius, you mean?” 

“Draco. His son,” Hermione mused, noting the expression of distaste on Bella’s face and trying to conceal a grin.”He takes after Narcissa more than Lucius anyway,” Hermione commented, turning the page. 

“Wait, _Cissa?_ ” Bellatrix exclaimed. “My sister married that, _that_ \--” she paused for a moment, seeming to struggle to find the right words to frame her opinion of Lucius Malfoy. 

Hermione smirked. “Yes, she married Lucius,” she confirmed, glancing over the next article, grinning as she read the headline aloud, “ _Skeeter’s Slurs - Famed Journalist Loses 5 Million Galleon Defamation Suit.”_

The grin faded from Hermione’s face when she read the next headline, however.

“What is it?” Bellatrix asked, leaning over to read the headline herself. She looked at Hermione with raised eyebrows. “ _Department of Mysteries Calls for Investigation Into Time Turner Theft._ Well, well, Miss Noble Hero, where _did_ you steal yours from?” she asked, a mischievous glint in her dark eyes. 

“I didn’t steal it,” Hermione said exasperatedly. “I was given it.”

“Sure, _sure…_ ” Bellatrix said sarcastically. “That’s what they all say,” she said with a smirk. 

“It’s true,” Hermione said with a little pout. 

“Doesn’t matter anyway. There’s no point returning it. One of the bullets shattered it when that woman shot you,” Bellatrix shrugged. 

“It’s broken?” Hermione said, sounding devastated. 

Bellatrix handed her the delicate hourglass from a side-table. Sure enough, the glass was completely shattered, not a single sand grain remaining. 

“We’re stuck here then,” Hermione said with a sigh. 

“It’s not all bad,” Bellatrix declared. “I can’t wait to see the look on my sister’s faces. I’m the oldest and I’ll bet I look the prettiest,” she said smugly. 

“About that…” Hermione said with a grimace, spreading the newspaper out so Bellatrix could see the headline and accompanying photo spread. “ _Ministry Re-Opens Fifty Cold Missing Persons Cases - Rewards Offered.”_

She pointed out two familiar faces in the photo spread. _‘Bellatrix Black - missing since 21/12/1971,’ and ‘Hermione Jean Black - missing since 22/09/2000._ ’

“Missing?” Bellatrix said, stunned. 

“The Time-Turner,” Hermione said slowly. “When we came here, it must have removed us from the timeline for…”

“Nearly thirty-three years,” Bellatrix said grimly. “Well, nearly four years for you,” she shrugged. “Both our families probably think we’re dead.”

“Great,” Hermione said sarcastically. “No, wait. Hermione Jean _Black,_ ” she said excitedly. 

Bellatrix looked at her uncomprehendingly. 

“Black, Bellatrix, _Black!_ ” Hermione exclaimed, pointing at the name underneath her photograph. “This changes everything. My parents, my birth parents, might still be alive!” 

“Black?” the man across the room repeated. “B.B and H.B? Your initials,” he clarified when they looked confused.

“Yeah,” Hermione said slowly. 

“You’re the targets,” the Winter Soldier breathed. 

“Targets of what?” Bellatrix demanded. 

“Hydra. They’re-- dangerous. They sent us to--” he hesitated. 

“To kill us,” Bellatrix surmised, understanding dawning and drawing her wand. 

“Bella, wait,” Hermione said, turning to the man. “Why haven’t you? Killed us, I mean. You’ve had a dozen chances.” 

“I can’t,” he admitted. “It’s the soul bond. You’re mine,” he said, looking at Hermione with his intense blue eyes. 

“Excuse me?” Hermione said, not liking where this was going at all. 

“Soul bonds. Everyone is born with the initials of one branded into their heart. But you can’t kill your bondmate, you’re bound to protect them at whatever cost. It’s why we were sent to eliminate ours, to destroy our own weaknesses - B.B and H.B. You were the mission,” he explained. 

“We?” Bellatrix repeated. “You were working with the psycho that shot her!” she exclaimed furiously. 

“Wait, how do you know it’s me? Not Bellatrix or someone else out there?” Hermione asked slowly. 

“Yeah, your redhead assassin pal seems more like your type,” Bellatrix agreed. 

“You protected me,” the Winter Soldier told Hermione.”You appeared out of thin air to save me. It was the soul bond.”

“These bonds transcend space and time?” Hermione said wonderingly, glancing at the broken time turner. 

“You’re not serious?” Bellatrix said, sharing a look with Hermione. 

“Think about it, Bella. Why _else_ did we land here, decades further in the future from where we were supposed to be?” Hermione asked, the pieces clicking into place. 

“How do you even know all this? Doesn’t this _Hydro_ organisation keep a tight lid on things?” Bellatrix said incredulously. 

“They wipe our memories and freeze us until we are needed,” the Winter Soldier said quietly. 

“Then how do you remember so much about them?” Bellatrix asked suspiciously.

“The memories come back eventually, then they wipe us again. But I think the bond helps… I’ve started to remember… things,” he said hesitantly. 

“What kinds of things?” Hermione asked curiously. 

“Bad things,” he said, looking deeply troubled. “But some good things too. I remember… my name’s Bucky,” he said, a slow smile lighting up his face, as though that tiny detail of his identity meant the world to him.

How long had he been a nameless weapon, Hermione wondered, just as an explosion shook the floor of the hospital, bangs and screams echoing through the building. 

“It’s her,” Bellatrix and Bucky said at the same time. 

“Get Hermione out of here. Keep her safe,” Bellatrix ordered, heading for the door. 

“She will be safe,” Bucky promised. 

“Bella, what are you doing?” Hermione said worriedly. 

“Making up for past mistakes,” she said grimly, darting into the hall without another word. 

It was only as Bucky helped her to her feet and handed fresh jeans and a t-shirt to her that Hermione realised something else had changed. Bellatrix. In this timeline, she was a hero. Hermione wondered what else they had inadvertently changed. Only time would tell. 


	10. Lost in the Echo

_October 30 2004_

“Where are we?” Hermione asked. 

Bucky hadn’t spoken much since commandeering a cab for their use. He’d driven at breakneck speed for nearly forty minutes before arriving at an old apartment building somewhere in Brooklyn. Most of the windows were boarded up, and a large paper sign had been tacked to the main entrance which read “ _These premises are condemned.”_ Other smaller signs read “ _Unsafe,”_ “ _Do Not Enter,”_ and “ _Trespassers Will Be Persecuted.”_

“Come on,” Bucky said, helping her out of the car and leading her around the side of the building to a rusted fire escape. 

“Are you sure about this?” Hermione said nervously. “We’re not supposed to be here. The sign said--”

“I know what the sign said,” Bucky shrugged. “It’s safe, trust me. I know what I’m doing,” he promised. 

The sincerity in his eyes seemed to be enough to convince her. They were quite different eyes to the Winter Soldier’s. There was less coldness in them and more warmth, more of Bucky in the pools of blue around his pupils. She could only hope his memories were starting to return. From what he’d said, it hadn’t been his choice to be an assassin - memory wiping was the same as brainwashing in her book. Hermione climbed the steps after him slowly, wincing at every wobble and creak on the way up. 

“Don’t look down, don’t look down,” she muttered to herself as they climbed all the way up to the sixth floor. 

“Scared of heights?” Bucky asked with a grin, shattering the boarded-up window with his metal arm. 

“Scared of falling,” Hermione admitted, allowing him to help her through the window as the broken glass crunched under Bucky’s heavy combat boots. 

“What is this place?” Hermione asked, looking around the small apartment.

Several inches of dust covered the floor, and most of the surfaces showed clear evidence of mice making themselves at home, droppings scattered here and there. 

“I don’t know, actually,” Bucky admitted. “I just thought ‘where’s somewhere safe?’ and it popped into my head.”

“You remember it?” Hermione asked.

“Not really. I mean, who knows? Maybe I killed someone here,” Bucky said grimly. 

“That’s not funny,” Hermione said sharply. 

“I know,” Bucky said quietly. “I was serious. You don’t know me, Hermione. Even I don’t know me… what I’m capable of,” he said with a shudder, turning away from her. 

“You’re not a bad person, Bucky,” Hermione told him, resting her hand on his shoulder. 

“How do you know?” he asked, flexing the fingers of his metal arm and glancing at his holstered guns. 

“Trust me, I know,” Hermione said, her gaze lingering on his blue eyes. There was something about them that drew her in, the way the blue turned to green when he faced the sun, the flecks of silver in his irises, the way they almost seemed grey when he stood in the shadows… Bucky’s eyes were as intriguing as the man himself and Hermione felt a powerful pull toward him, but he blinked and looked away. 

They had the same fear, Hermione realised as Bucky disappeared into the next room to ‘look around.’ _Fear of falling._

* * *

Bucky leaned against the wall in the adjoining room, breathing hard, his heart hammering wildly in his chest. Something felt _wrong,_ and it took him several long minutes to understand what the feeling was that was coursing through his veins, making his breathing ragged and tying his stomach into knots. He was _afraid._ It had been so long since the Winter Soldier had felt fear that Bucky had forgotten what it felt like. But he knew what it was now. He was afraid. Afraid to hurt Hermione. Afraid to disappoint her. And deathly scared, _terrified,_ of losing her, of having her ripped from him, of seeing the light go out in her eyes when Hydra inevitably killed her. _Hydra._ Hydra would come.They always did. It wasn't safe, nowhere was safe. Not for her, not for him. He needed to remember. He needed to remember now, before Hydra came and took it all away again, Bucky thought desperately. 

He moved to the foyer of the tiny apartment, where there were two shelves next to the front door. Bucky tested it, but it was sealed shut. His eyes drifted to the two small shelves. Both were covered in a thick layer of dust. The bottom shelf was empty, but on the top shelf were three discoloured old jars, filled with small rocks. They had been decorative once, perhaps. Next to the pots was a chipped ceramic elephant. It seemed familiar, and Bucky picked it up, wiping the dust off its face with his thumb. He had seen it before, he was sure of it. 

He didn’t put it back, but carried it with him to the next room; a bathroom with chipped, cracked and mouldy tiles, a small shower in the corner, a spotted mirror, and a discoloured old toilet. A broken mop leaned against one wall. Bucky checked the cabinet in the bathroom but there was nothing of interest in there, just an old bottle of aspirin. 

He shut the door behind him and tried the next door down the hall, which was locked. Disappointed, Bucky paused and then kicked it hard, the frame splintering as the door crashed inwards and fell with a heavy _thud._

“What are you doing?” Hermione exclaimed, coming to investigate the source of the noise. 

“Nothing,” Bucky said sheepishly, stepping into the room and walking over the now cracked door. Hermione followed him inside, rolling her eyes. 

There was very little in the room: a single bed-frame, a scratched and faded side-table and a few piles of books stacked against the far wall, the pages yellowed and crumbling with age. 

“There’s nothing here,” Bucky said with an air of disappointment as they returned to the dusty living room together. 

“What’s that you’re holding?” Hermione asked curiously. 

Bucky showed her the ceramic elephant, allowing her to clean the dust off it with the hem of her shirt. 

“It’s cute,” Hermione said, handing the elephant back to Bucky with a smile. 

“If the trunk’s pointing up, it means good luck,” Bucky murmured softly with a strangely sweet smile on his lips. 

“How do you know that?” Hermione asked. 

Bucky traced the elephant’s trunk with his fingers. “Someone told me once. My Ma, I think,” he said, a strange mixture of feelings washing over him: sadness, longing, sweet nostalgia and love. 

“You remember her?” Hermione said hopefully. 

“Not _clearly,_ ” Bucky said, thinking hard. “I couldn’t tell you what she looked like or what her name was, but I know… _I know_ she told me that once,” he said slowly, frowning as he tried to remember. 

“It must be so strange having this whole other life you can’t remember,” Hermione said gently. 

“Not as strange as some other things,” Bucky said, shaking his head as he thought of the soul bond that seemed to have fractured decades of Hydra’s intensive conditioning. 

* * *

St Seton’s head nurse, Aubrey Emery, was having a very bad day indeed; a feeling shared by a certain red-haired assassin who was currently pointing a pair of small pistols at the nurse’s head. 

“I don’t know who you’re talking about!” Aubrey exclaimed, her brown eyes wide and fearful. 

“Bellatrix Black and Hermione Black. Room numbers. Now.” Nat stated slowly and clearly. 

“I--I don’t,” Aubrey stammered as Nat lost her patience and fired a shot so close to the nurse’s head that Aubrey felt the whisper of heat from the bullet pass next to her ear and screamed in terror. 

“Room. Numbers.” Nat repeated. “Or the next bullet goes between your eyes,” she added threateningly. 

Aubrey sobbed hysterically and rifled through the ledger of hospital records in front of her, searching desperately for the names. She had no doubt whatsoever that the woman threatening her would make good on those threats if she didn’t give her what she wanted. 

“There’s no-one here by either of those names,” Aubrey said nervously after a few minutes of frantic searching. 

“They _are_ here,” Nat insisted. “At least one of them is. How else do you think I found this stupid hospital? I can feel it like a goddamn magnet in my chest,” she hissed. 

“I-I can call a Healer. They can help you with anything lodged in your chest,” Aubrey promised. “Just put _those_ down,” she pleaded, her eyes flickering to the twin pistols still trained on her head. 

“Get out of the way,” Nat snapped, waving a pistol in the air. Aubrey didn’t need telling twice and immediately fled the reception desk, running away, down the nearest corridor as fast as she could. 

Nat pointed a pistol at the nurse’s retreating back, sorely tempted to put a bullet in Aubrey’s spine. She let out a deep breath and glared, _she’s not the target,_ she reminded herself. If Hydra allowed their assets to kill everyone that annoyed them, attention would have been called to their nefarious activities long before now. 

Nat yanked the hospital ledger across the desk and skimmed the names. The nurse had been right. There was no record of a Hermione Black or a Bellatrix Black being admitted to St Seton’s. She sighed, momentarily stymied. She’d been _so_ sure. 

She paused, skimming the other names listed with idle interest. There. _Hermione Granger._ Room 6102. Admitted with a GSW to the lower abdomen. The injury in addition to the unusual first name was too unlikely to be a coincidence. This was the Hermione she was searching for. Her mission. 

* * *

Bellatrix heard her before she saw her, the screams and sounds of gunshots echoing up the corridor. Even wizards with all their magic were no match for the infamous Black Widow. But Bellatrix Black was. 

The thought had occurred to Bellatrix that the Improper Use of Magic Office may take issue with her using magic in front of a Muggle. Still, she reasoned that this particular Muggle was a danger to her own life and the lives of other witches and wizards in the building, not to mention other Muggles. She was performing a public service, that was all, she told herself, rolling up her sleeves and drawing her wand.

She stepped into the corridor at almost the exact same instant as Nat, who shoved the double doors of the ward open, just as hospital security reached the floor. Half a dozen trained hit wizards and one Muggle, Bellatrix thought with a sardonic smile playing at the corners of her mouth. This assassin’s goose was cooked for sure. 

But the Black Widow moved almost too quickly to be believed, slipping past the first hit wizard and then sliding effortlessly on her knees as she threw two small silver discs onto the floor at his feet. The wizard froze on the spot, jerking and spasming as twin electrical currents coursed through his body, the blue electrical sparks emanating from the little silver discs. Bellatrix watched with wide eyes, _amazing,_ she thought to herself, _weaponized Muggle artefacts._

The Black Widow leapt gracefully like a cat at the second hit wizard. He never even had time to aim his wand before he was flat on his back, the Black Widow pinning him to the floor before knocking him unconscious. Bellatrix watched with awe. Her wand was still in her hand, but no spell came to mind. All the fight seemed to have drained right out of her as she watched Nat’s fluid, graceful movements, completely mesmerized. 

A third hit wizard went down. This one was clearly a Gryffindor, Bellatrix thought, watching the wizard rush recklessly at the assassin and almost laughing as Nat slid along the floor, passing between his legs before he knew what had happened and punching him viciously in the groin. Bellatrix watched the entire exchange with amusement, wondering if she were going mad. Surely, a sane person would be running for their life by now, but Bellatrix couldn’t look away, much less run or fight as had been her first instinct. There was something about this Muggle, the speed and agility she displayed when she moved, the glint of her green eyes, the softly curling tendrils of red hair that graced her shoulders. There was some magnetic pull, some invisible force lay between them, and Bellatrix knew without a doubt that she couldn’t defend herself, much less hurt this woman; she was spellbound, completely at her mercy. 

It was a feeling not entirely unshared between the remaining hit wizards, one of whom didn’t know how to react when Nat made a flying leap, draping her legs over his shoulders so that he was forced to catch her as she hung upside down, the man dragged in a semi-circle by her momentum as Nat contorted her body and somehow managed to fling the wizard to the floor and land on her feet at the same time, delivering a kick to the wizard’s face that sent blood spurting from his nose. 

There were two small bangs as Nat threw two more silver discs onto the floor, releasing a potent tear gas that made two of the hit wizards reel backwards, wiping at their streaming eyes and rendering them too distracted to defend themselves from the Black Widow, who knocked both wizards unconscious effortlessly, moving to dispatch the final hit wizard who advanced on her and hesitated. Bellatrix wondered if he was afraid to attack a woman; _mistake,_ she thought wickedly, watching Nat dart to the left and slip behind him, twisting some sort of nylon cord around his throat. The wizard struggled, his fingers scrabbling uselessly at the cable, as his eyes widened with panic and his face turned an ugly purple, before he finally collapsed to the floor, unconscious. 

Nat halted in front of Bellatrix, her green eyes boring into the witch with an intensity that seemed to radiate through her. Bellatrix saw her own confusion reflected in the assassin’s face for a moment, before Nat blinked and looked away, shaking her head slightly. 

“What are you waiting for?” Bellatrix said, a little impatiently. She hadn’t expected this at all. She had watched this woman take down six fully grown men and she didn’t even have magical abilities. Yet now she hesitated, _why?_ It made no sense. 

“I have to go,” Nat mumbled to herself so quietly that Bellatrix almost didn’t hear her.

“What do you mean? I thought you were here to kill me?” Bellatrix said, blocking her path. 

“I was. I have to comply,” Nat said, biting her lip anxiously. 

“You can’t, can you?” Bellatrix asked, remembering the earlier conversation she and Hermione had had with Bucky. “Soul bonds? Are you mine?” she asked wonderingly. 

“He told you?” Nat said, her eyes wide and fearful as she realised what that meant. When Hydra discovered the mission had failed, there would be hell to pay. Hydra only answered failure in one way… “Compromised,” Nat muttered, striding past Bellatrix and fleeing down the hospital corridor without another word. 

Bellatrix ran after her but the Black Widow knew how to disappear even without the use of apparition or disillusionment charms. Bellatrix sighed, frustrated, even more so at the knowledge that Bucky had known what he was talking about. These soul bonds were apparently very real and she was left in no doubt as to who hers was. But she had run, Bellatrix realised, puzzled. Weren’t they supposed to be drawn to each other? 

It was then that she remembered what Bucky had said about them being bound to protect their bondmate. If that were the case, maybe this assassin had run to defend her… from _herself._ It hardly mattered. She would track her down and get answers if nothing else. But first, she needed to find Hermione. 


	11. Fault in my Code

“Bucky? Bucky! Come on, wake up. You’re okay! You’re safe,” Hermione said anxiously, gently shaking his shoulder. 

The former Hydra assassin had fallen into an exhausted sleep three-quarters of an hour ago, but had begun shifting restlessly, muttering incoherently in fragments of Russian, German and English. 

“Mission… my-- target… report…” Bucky muttered, his face contorted with pain. 

Hermione squeezed his shoulder a little tighter. “That’s not you, Bucky,” she started to say, before she suddenly found her legs being kicked out from under her, landing flat on her back, the wind knocked out of her. But before she had a chance to catch her breath, a metal hand curled around her throat.

Hermione’s eyes widened in panic and she struggled uselessly against Bucky’s iron grip, the blank, emotionless expression of the Winter Soldier, the last thing she would see as he choked the life out of her … 

A white-hot burning sensation pulsed through her at that instant, racing through her veins and making her nerves tingle with energy. Bucky seemed to have felt it too and reeled backwards, releasing her and then moving as far away from her as he could get, sliding to the floor in the corner and burying his face in his hands, his knees drawn up to his chest, shaking violently. 

Hermione rolled onto her side and coughed, massaging her throat as she took several deep breaths. Her lungs burned as oxygen and relief swept through her with every breath, the adrenaline and fear slowly fading. It was some minutes before she found her feet again, her breaths now deep and even, in stark contrast to the panicked gasping from a moment ago. 

She glanced at Bucky, whose face was completely hidden, his body curled tightly into the corner as though trying to make himself as small as possible. 

“Bucky?” she said softly, approaching him. She didn’t immediately touch him this time, but stopped just short of him, sitting cross-legged on the floor about a foot away. 

Bucky didn’t look up or even acknowledge her presence. Hermione let out a deep sigh, and edged closer, hoping she wasn’t about to regret it. 

“It’s not your fault,” Hermione said gently. 

“Is!” Bucky replied tersely, the word muffled. 

Hermione almost smiled, his petulance reminded her irresistibly of Draco. 

She scooted a little closer, now within an inch of him. She longed to reach out and touch him, desperate to comfort him, but she hesitated, fear coiling in her gut. 

Her fear wasn't of him hurting her physically, Hermione realised. Whatever Hydra had made Bucky into, he was still a good man. Evil assassins who enjoyed killing people didn't sit shaking in a corner, calling themselves a monster. Good men who had been mind-controlled into doing unspeakable acts did. Hermione had seen her share of Imperius victims after the war had ended. Most were just like Bucky. They remembered what they'd done as though they'd been passengers in their own bodies, mere marionettes with dark puppeteers manipulating their strings, making them murder, kill and maim, often leaving them with vague memories that seemed like a bad dream. 

But when those memories surfaced, as Bucky's inevitably would, it left the victims traumatised and broken. Bucky was broken, and he needed to heal. She wanted to help make him whole again, it was as simple as that. Not because of a soul bond; she had no doubt that was what the white-hot pulsing feeling had been. It was difficult to explain, but non-verbal and accidental magic felt different, more like tingling electricity than the burning magnetic pulse that had shot through her a few moments ago. The soul bond was certainly helpful to have as an insurance policy against Bucky's Winter Soldier conditioning, Hermione reflected. Still, bond aside, she wanted to help Bucky because in the short time she had been with him, she had quickly come to care about him, and that was all there was to it. She realised this with startling clarity, reaching out to rest a comforting hand on his knee before she had the opportunity to second-guess herself. 

Bucky's head shot up immediately, his intense blue eyes wet with the tears that he refused to let fall. Hermione had barely registered his pained expression before his right hand gripped her wrist, removing her hand from his leg, his grip firm but not ungentle. The movement was so sudden that it quite took Hermione by surprise, though she noted that he had seized her wrist with his flesh hand, rather than his cold, metal one. He didn't want to hurt her, she could see it in his eyes, along with something else.  _ Fear.  _

She met his stare with her own calm gaze, memorising every line of his face and searching out the depths of emotion in his eyes. When his gaze met hers, it was as though all his vulnerabilities and insecurities were exposed, laid bare before her. Bucky couldn't hide from her and Hermione wouldn't let him withdraw into himself or shut her out. 

Bucky blinked and looked away, but didn't release her arm. 

"What are you doing?" he managed to say, a slight quiver to his voice. 

Hermione sought out his eyes, cupping his cheek with her free hand and smiling when Bucky leaned into the warmth of her touch, closing his eyes for a moment. An expression of peaceful relief replaced the look of fear. There was a gentleness and a longing in his gaze, mixed with a good measure of hesitation.  _ A gun-shy assassin,  _ Hermione thought, almost giggling at the idea. 

"I'm not afraid of you, Bucky," she said softly, moving her hand across his cheek and threading it through his hair. 

"You should be," Bucky sighed, allowing her to play with the silky tendrils of his hair despite himself. 

He released her wrist and mirrored her movements, tracing her cheek with his fingers, then slipping them into her soft curls and cupping the back of her neck. He drew her towards him as Hermione threaded both hands through his hair; she tugged gently, coaxing a contented sigh from deep in his throat as he leaned down and pressed his lips to hers in a gentle kiss. 

Hermione melted into Bucky, his mouth on hers sending a dizzying heat through her that raced along her veins and filled her with a warmth that was sweeter and more addictive than butterbeer. She craved more of him, more of the delicious contradictions he possessed; at times, rough and dangerous, but also gentle and protective. 

Bucky's tongue gently slid across her lips, tasting her, before delving into her mouth and making her moan with want. His hands slipped beneath the hem of her shirt, the combination of flesh and metal, like fire and ice, sending a thrill through her as he devoured her mouth, hurling her senses into overdrive with every touch. 

Hermione fumbled with the many buckles and straps of his black leather vest, unclasping the holster that criss-crossed his back and setting it gently on the floor. With every weapon she removed and each restrictive buckle, strap and clasp she undid, more of Bucky began to emerge. The  _ real  _ Bucky was revealed, as the weight of the Winter Soldier was slowly removed. 

At last Hermione set the vest aside, trailing her hands over Bucky's bare chest and pressing searing kisses to his throat as she explored the many small, faint scars that littered his torso: old stab wounds and the marks of bullets from missions that had gone awry. She kissed her way along his collarbone, pausing when she reached the thick, reddened scar tissue where his cybernetic arm joined his body. 

"Does this hurt?" she asked, tracing the deep scars gently with her fingertips. 

"I'm used to it," Bucky shrugged. 

So,  _ yes,  _ Hermione thought with a frown, drawing her wand and thinking hard. She had researched every spell related to the removal of scar tissue after the war, in the hopes of removing her Mudblood scar. None had worked for her, but maybe she would be able to help Bucky, she thought hopefully, tracing her wand over his shoulder and concentrating hard on the incantation, her non-verbal magic now so well practiced, she didn't need to speak it aloud. 

She watched the angry red scar tissue smooth and fade to pink after a few moments, a smile spreading across her face as she pressed a kiss to the now soft, unblemished skin. 

"Better?" she asked. 

Bucky rotated his shoulder and then nodded. "Much," he replied, dropping a sweet kiss on her lips in thanks. 

"You don't seem surprised by this or my magic," Hermione said, twirling her wand. 

"I trained someone like you once. He had a wand like that and special powers," Bucky shrugged. 

"What was his name?" Hermione asked curiously, resting her head against Bucky's chest. 

" _ Nayemnik.  _ The Mercenary. I never knew his real name," Bucky said with a frown. 

"Hydra recruited wizards too?" Hermione said in surprise, as Bucky played with her hair and kissed the top of her head. 

"I suppose. We just called them  _ enhanced, _ " he explained. "I thought they were experimented on like I was." 

"Maybe some of them were," Hermione said thoughtfully. 

"How did you get your magic?" Bucky asked. 

"I was born with it," Hermione said, tracing the grooves of his metal arm as she spoke. "Then I studied at a school of magic with others like me." 

"How many others?" Bucky asked anxiously, his mind already busy analysing possible threats. 

"Enough questions for now," Hermione said, pressing a finger to his lips. "I've already broken about six provisions of the International Statute of Secrecy by telling you about it," she admitted, feeling incredibly rebellious and pressing her lips to Bucky's again, letting the heat of his mouth envelop her.

She drew his bottom lip between her teeth, nibbling at it and drawing a groan from Bucky as he buried his hands in her hair and deepened the kiss, sliding his tongue into her mouth with greater urgency than before and kissing her hard, his tongue swirling over hers as he licked the roof of her mouth, sending a wave of burning desire through Hermione.

There was a sudden  _ crack  _ that echoed in the room, and both Hermione and Bucky flinched, expecting an attack. 

"Am I interrupting something?" a smug voice asked. 

"Bella!" Hermione exclaimed, getting slowly to her feet and blushing at being discovered with a half-naked assassin. "How did you find us?" 

"Tracking spell," she shrugged. "Making new friends I see," she added with a wink. 

"What happened at the hospital?" Hermione asked. "I thought she was going to kill you!" 

"She couldn't," Bellatrix said with a twisted smile. "You're not the only one who has an assassin for your bondmate." 

"You and her?" Hermione said, gaping at Bellatrix. 

"We're not a 'me and her.' We're not together," Bellatrix protested. "But if you two want to stay alive, we should go. She's not far...behind," she trailed off, as a familiar head of red hair appeared in the centre of the room. 

The Black Widow had found them. 


	12. Compromised

Hermione was the first to react to the Black Widow's sudden appearance, stepping protectively in front of Bucky, her wand drawn. 

"Stay back," Hermione said fiercely, brandishing her wand, a repertoire of defensive spells running through her mind. 

Bucky tried to pull her back. "Don't," he murmured urgently. "I can't see you hurt again. I'm not worth that." 

"You are to me," Hermione said fiercely, sending a non-verbal stunning spell at the Black Widow, the red jet of light missing as Bella wrested the wand from Hermione's grip. 

"What are you doing?" Hermione demanded. 

"I can't let you hurt her," Bella said desperately. 

"Have you gone completely mad? She's here to try to kill us again, Bellatrix!" Hermione exclaimed, trying to snatch her wand back. 

"No," Nat said quietly, her green eyes flickering to Bella's face, before settling on Bucky. "I'm here for him." 

"What the hell do you want with me?" Bucky said, taking a step towards her, his right hand resting on his thigh holster. 

" _ No questions, no hesitation. We have orders, _ " Nat said, reciting something the Winter Soldier had told her on her very first mission. "Do you remember that?" 

"Yes," Bucky said slowly, a distant look coming to his eyes. "I remember telling you that on your first mission. Little Nat with all the questions," he said with a wry smile. 

"You shouldn't. You shouldn't remember any of it. Neither should I," Nat declared. "We're compromised. We failed the mission. We have to go back," she insisted. 

"Back?" Bucky repeated, his tone filled with dread. "To Hydra?" 

"He's not going anywhere with you," Hermione said fiercely, addressing Nat. "And he's  _ never  _ going back to them!" 

"He doesn't have a choice. There are no choices. Only orders," Nat replied. "He knows what will happen if he fails to comply." 

"I've already failed then," Bucky said quietly, drawing Hermione to his side. "And I don't want to succeed. I won't comply. That's not who I am. That's who I  _ was,  _ what they made me into," he said, sharing a look with Hermione, who smiled encouragingly. 

"They  _ remade _ all of us into what we are," Nat said grimly. "This is what you are, what I am," she exclaimed, drawing her pistol and taking aim. 

The ceramic elephant shattered, it's wise old face now riddled with bullet holes. 

Bucky's face contorted with shock and anger at seeing his cherished elephant destroyed so callously. 

"That was mine," he said quietly. 

"No, it wasn't. You own nothing," Nat said coldly. "They own you. You are  _ their  _ asset,  _ their _ weapon,  _ their  _ instrument of death. You. Are. A. Killer. Just like me. We comply or we die!" she exclaimed furiously. 

"Those are not the only options!" Bellatrix said furiously, striding forward. She had watched the conversation quietly up until now, but she could no longer stand idly by. 

"Yes, they are," Nat insisted. "I was born to this. I have never had any other life. This is who I have always been, who I will always be." 

"What about the soul bond?" Bellatrix demanded, stepping into Nat's personal space, heedless of the gun she held. 

"Irrelevant. The only thing that matters is the mission." Nat said, though there was a flicker of doubt in her eyes. 

"So you'll go back to be tortured and killed?" Bellatrix said in disbelief. 

"If those are my orders," Nat replied stiffly. 

"Here's an order:  _ fuck  _ that!" Bellatrix hissed furiously, slamming Nat against the wall, a wild look in her dark eyes as she covered Nat's mouth with her own in a searing kiss, burying her hands in the assassin's hair and tugging hard, making Nat moan in want, her gun clattering to the floor. 

They broke apart after a few moments, both breathing hard. 

"Is it still irrelevant?" Bellatrix asked, pressing her lips to Nat's exposed throat and sucking and licking at her sensitive skin. 

"Yes," Nat said with a little whimpering moan as Bellatrix bit gently at her skin, marking her. 

"You're still going to go back?" Bellatrix asked. 

"Yes," Nat said, though she sounded a little less sure now. 

"Because the mission is all you care about?" Bellatrix said fiercely, kissing Nat again and sliding her tongue into her mouth as her hands explored Nat's slim body. 

"Yes," Nat said, kissing Bella hard and tasting her lips. 

"I don't believe you," Bella whispered breathlessly. " _ Legilimens!"  _

A whirl of images flashed past as Bella entered Nat's mind. The most recent memories were the first to be presented to her - men, women, children, all eliminated without question, falling at Nat's hands. Shot, stabbed, strangled - Nat's eyes held the same empty, emotionless expression each and every time. She truly was the ruthless killer she claimed to be, Bellatrix thought, a hollow feeling in her gut. Agonizing screams of pain reverberated in her head, almost as though someone was being tortured, Nat, she presumed. The sound was eerily familiar. Bella couldn't count the number of times her father had punished her defiance with the Cruciatus. Had someone done that to Nat? 

She focused on the screams, drawing the memory of them to her as she focused on the sounds, letting them drown out everything else. Nat strapped into a Muggle machine, tears coursing down her cheeks. She was so young in this memory, Bellatrix thought, not more than 15 or 16 years old. 

"Please, don't do this," Nat was sobbing. "I don't want to forget who I am. I'll do everything you say. I'll comply, I swear." 

"These memories are a weakness. They are holding you back from your full potential. You will be unbreakable, Natalia," said a woman who was leaning over her. 

"I'm not a killer. I'm not," Nat said desperately. 

"Not yet, but you will be. You will be whatever we need you to be. You are my favourite Natalia, but you must be strong. You must be marble," the woman declared. "Let us begin." 

"No, no, NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!" Nat screamed as electricity coursed through her, ripping the memories from her by force as Bellatrix looked on, horrified. Was this what Amos had felt when she had obliviated him? She pushed the thought aside, unwilling to process it. Forget Amos, this is not about him, she told herself, refocusing. 

The memory wipe on Nat seemed to be complete. The woman who had spoken to her before was asking her questions. 

"Who are you?" 

"Irrelevant. The mission comes first," Nat said flatly. 

"What is your mission?" 

"To comply," she responded. 

"Eliminate the target," the woman ordered coldly, releasing Nat from the machine, handing her a small pistol and watching as a girl was dragged into the room. 

"Please, Nat, please," the girl was begging. "It's me. It's Anya. I'm your friend! I'm your friend!" 

"You're my mission," Nat said coldly, firing twice, the other girl falling where she stood, blood spreading across her chest. 

A new memory formed, this one much older. Nat was five or six, watching from under a bed as a couple (presumably her parents) were murdered by the woman who had directed Nat's memory wiping earlier. Little Nat was screaming as she was dragged out from under the bed, kicking and biting at the woman, who paused, giving her a strange look. 

"What's your name, child?" 

"Natalia Alianovna Romanova," little Nat declared spitefully. 

"Natalia, you have such strength. Like fire. Someday you will be marble. Already, you're my favourite…" 

The memory dissolved and Bellatrix retreated from Nat's mind, reeling back with a horrified gasp. Her expression of horror was mirrored on Nat's face. 

"Did you see everything I saw?" Nat said in a choked voice. 

Bellatrix nodded, unable to speak. 

"I remember," Nat said, her eyes glistening with tears, before she drew a knife from her belt and advanced on Bucky, knocking him to the floor and driving the blade into his flesh, just below his collarbone. 

Bucky yelled and struggled as Hermione tried to pull the assassin off him, to no avail, blood trickling down Bucky's chest as Nat climbed off him, holding a small tracking chip between her fingers. 

She cleaned the blade and then cut into her own skin, removing a similar chip. 

"We need to destroy them. Hydra will be using them to track us," Nat said, the acrid smell of burning plastic filling the room as Bella immediately set the chips on fire. 

"Thanks, I think," Bucky said grimly as Hermione helped him to his feet. 

He wasn't standing long, however, before an explosion shook the room, sending them all diving for cover. Hydra had come to claim their assets and complete the mission. 


	13. Hail Hydra

"Down!" Bucky yelled, dragging Hermione to the floor and using the overturned sofa as a barrier between them and the dozen or so armed men that had burst into the apartment and were covering every window and door. 

"There's no way out. We're trapped," Bucky said grimly. 

"Where's Bella?" Hermione said anxiously, wincing as a bang echoed through the room. The thick fumes of smoke made her eyes and throat burn. 

"Here," Bella announced, ducking behind the sofa and dragging Nat, who seemed to have been knocked unconscious by the first blast. 

"Bella, my wand," Hermione reminded her, feeling a wave of relief as Bellatrix returned it to her. Now she wasn't as helpless. 

"Is she alright?" Bucky asked, with a nod at Nat's still form. 

"I think so," Bella said, feeling for a pulse and checking her breathing. "She's just knocked out. She'll be okay." 

"Who are these people, Bucky?" Hermione whispered nervously. One of them, presumably their leader, ordered them to come out, and announced that the building was surrounded. 

"S.H.I.E.L.D, Hydra, both," Bucky shrugged, knowing it made little difference. 

"I thought S.H.I.E.L.D were supposed to be _good_ ," Bella hissed. 

"Hydra has people inside S.H.I.E.L.D," Bucky whispered back. "There isn't anyone we can trust." 

"So, what do we do?" Hermione asked nervously. 

Bucky sighed heavily. "We give them what they want," he said heavily. "Me and her," he said, nodding at Nat. 

"No," Bella protested immediately. "After everything I did to break their hold on her mind? Are you insane?" 

"There isn't another option," Bucky said hopelessly. "Either we let them take us or we die trying to fight our way out." 

"Not everything has to be a fight!" Hermione said furiously. "There has to be another way." 

"There is," Bellatrix said urgently as footsteps turned on their direction. "We apparate and figure this out later. I'll take her, and you take him." 

"Grimmauld Place?" Hermione asked. 

Bella nodded and slipped her arms around Nat, disappearing with a _crack_. She was soon followed by Hermione and Bucky, who escaped with mere seconds to spare, the only trace of Hydra's assets: a discarded leather vest and holster, two handguns, a knife coated in blood and the melted, blackened remains of two tracking chips. The Black Widow and the Winter Soldier had vanished. 

* * *

Hermione stood on the front step of Grimmauld Place with Bucky, Bella and a very dazed Nat, who was only now coming to. 

"Is it safe?" Bucky asked as Hermione looked hesitant to go inside. 

"I don't know how much has changed. If I did enough. If I made it worse," Hermione said, biting her lip. 

"It'll be okay," Bellatrix promised. "You saved me. That's what my sisters wanted, right?" 

Hermione nodded, steeling herself and unlocking the door with a whispered charm. 

But scarcely had she entered the foyer when she was struck around the waist and sent crashing to the floor. 

"Young miss! Young miss is home! Home at last! Master! Master, come quickly!" came the deep, bullfrog-like croak of an old house-elf who was hugging Hermione around the middle. 

"Kreacher?" she managed to say in faint surprise. 

"What the hell is that?" Bucky muttered, staring at Kreacher. 

But Hermione didn't answer as the thundering echo of footsteps sounded in the hallway, a man entering the foyer at a run. 

"Sirius?" Hermione breathed. 

"I know it's been a while, Pet, but I think you can still call me Dad," he exclaimed, helping her up from the floor and pulling her into a bone-crushing hug. "We've been so worried, _so_ damn worried. You just disappeared!" he exclaimed. 

"I can explain everything," Hermione promised, swallowing the lump that seemed to have lodged in her throat. 

"Bella?" Sirius exclaimed in shock, seeing the small group that was hovering awkwardly in the doorway. "I thought you were dead! You disappeared at Christmas when I was, what - twelve? You look just the same, haven't aged a day!" He said, enveloping his long lost cousin in a hug. "And who are your friends, Pet? And where's his...shirt?" he said, eying Bucky's bloodstained chest and metal arm with interest. 

"I can explain," Hermione said again, though she was starting to wonder if she could. 

"I bloody hope so!" Sirius exclaimed with a laugh of relief. "Come down to the kitchen, all of you. Merlin's beard, it's so good to have you back, Pet," he exclaimed, wrapping an arm around Hermione's shoulders as he led the small group down to the kitchen. 

"Sirius, what was all that racket?" a soft voice asked as they entered the kitchen where a slim woman with long, honey-brown curls was peeling potatoes into the sink.

"Marley, you won't believe it, but--" 

"Mione! My Mione!" Marlene exclaimed in shock, abandoning her peeler and potatoes and flying across the room to envelop Hermione in a warm hug. "My Mione," she repeated over and over, stroking Hermione's hair. 

Hermione broke down and cried at the feeling of being truly loved and missed, the sense of belonging to a family that was all her own, a family that understood magic, and understood her. But she had a lot of explaining to do. 

It seemed to take hours, explaining Time-Turners and alternate timelines where Bellatrix was evil, and Sirius was a convicted murderer and Marlene was dead, and Muggle and wizard assassins were working for Hydra. Then there was brainwashing and soulmates and bonds and legilimency and tracking chips and narrow escapes… It seemed Hermione had been talking for hours before she finally took a breath. 

"But I don't understand something," Marlene said in confusion. "In this _original timeline_ of yours, you used a Time-Turner to go back and stop Bellatrix from becoming a crazy murderer, correct?" 

"Yes," Hermione nodded. The whole idea felt surreal to her now. 

"But our Mione just disappeared. Vanished into thin air," she exclaimed. 

"Right in front of us," Sirius added. "We had no idea what had happened. Your brother was going spare. Started tracking dark wizards all around the bloody globe trying to find you." 

"My brother?" Hermione repeated. 

"Well, _adopted_ brother," Sirius amended. "Harry. After Lily and James--" 

"Our Mione and Harry were very close. Practically twins," Marlene said fondly. 

"Harry was my best friend," Hermione mused. "I can't believe we're-- that I have _family_ ," she exclaimed, her eyes sparkling with tears. 

"But back to the timeline thing," Sirius said, squeezing Hermione's hand in a comforting way. 

"The timelines must have converged," Hermione shrugged. "When did I-- your me, disappear?"

"The 22nd of September, 2000," Marlene answered immediately. 

"The same day I used the Time-Turner," Hermione said thoughtfully. "But if we converged, why don't I remember being raised by you? I still have memories from the old timeline." 

"Maybe your timelines didn't converge. Maybe you erased yourself from existence. Your _other_ self, I mean," Bellatrix offered. 

"This is giving me a headache," Sirius complained. "It's far too complicated. Let's just say that you're back. Whether you're our Hermione or another, any Hermione in any world is always going to be our Hermione," he said fondly. 

"What about your friends?" Marlene said with concern. "Is this Hydra going to come looking for them?"

"Probably," Hermione said nervously. 

"Definitely," Nat said grimly. 

"How can we help?" Sirius asked. "Any friend of Mione's is a friend of the family." 

"Bucky said there isn't anyone we can trust. There are wizards in Hydra too. And they have infiltrated S.H.I.E.L.D." Hermione explained. 

"I know one agent we can trust. Well, he's the director now, but he was an agent when I knew him. Reggie's old boyfriend - Colonel Nicholas J Fury. He'll keep you safe and root out anyone who's working for Hydra," Sirius promised. 

"You're sure we can trust him?" Nat said warily. 

"If Regulus trusted him, we can too," Marlene said gently. "Of course, Nick will probably need your help," she added, looking pointedly at Bucky and Nat. "You know names, faces, locations and such I presume." 

"We do," Bucky admitted. "Up for a new mission, little Nat?" he said with a wink. 

"Can't wait," she smiled, leaning into Bella's shoulder.

"Oh, that reminds me," Sirius said. "We're having a little party tomorrow - for Halloween," he told them. "We get together every year at about this time to light candles for Lily and James - Harry's birth parents. It's an anniversary of sorts. But we also do it for Mione, so that she can find her way back to us. Now that she has, will you all join us? Open bar," he added with a wink as Marlene elbowed him in the ribs. 

"Who would be there?" Hermione asked, not sure she was up for a party. 

"The Weasleys, of course - Gideon and Fabian are manning the bar. Can't be helped, Marley, don't look at me like that," Sirius said with a grin. "It was either them or me and Remus, and you know what he's like when he's completely sloshed." Marlene rolled her eyes as Sirius continued. "The Longbottoms if Frank can get away from the Auror Office for five minutes - but assuming he can; him, Alice, and Neville. Also Luna and Augusta. Definitely Remus and Tonks and little Teddy, Andromeda, Ted, Cissa will probably come too and Draco. The Bones family always put in an appearance. Merlin knows Amelia needed that damn monacle to find where Edgar left the broom last time, but it'll be a great party. Everyone will be so happy to see you, Mione. Especially Harry. And I know it will mean the world to my cousins to have Bella back after so many years," he added gently. 

Hermione sat in wide-eyed disbelief. She'd done it. She'd saved them all. And the best part was, she had a new family to celebrate with, she thought happily, glancing at her parents, then Bella and Nat, and nestling into Bucky's arms as she sat contentedly listening to Sirius prattle on about his various escapades. Mission accomplished, Hermione thought with relief. 


	14. Epilogue

_ 15th May 2012 _

"Captain Rogers, welcome aboard," Nick Fury said, shaking Steve's hand.

The World War II vet and former captain looked around the massive S.H.I.E.L.D ship with disbelief. Technology sure had come a long way since he'd been frozen in time. Buried in ice, deep in the Arctic for nearly seventy years. It was still surreal to him. 

"Thank you, sir," Steve said, glancing around at the many S.H.I.E.L.D operatives busy at their work stations. 

Director Fury glanced at them too. S,HI.E.L.D had come a long way in the last eight years. The information supplied by two former Hydra assassins had been instrumental in rooting out the corruption within S.H.I.E.L.D and reforming it into the beacon of hope and light it had been intended to be. Of course, Fury had exacted a small price from them in return for erasing any record of their previous criminal actions. The Black Widow and the Winter Soldier now worked for S.H.I.E.L.D and it was Fury's hope that the pair would be instrumental in making the proposed Avengers a solid team. The protection of the world rested with S.H.I.E.L.D and with the Avengers. Fury and Coulson needed to forge them into a working unit in time to meet Loki and his Chitauri army in battle and hopefully recover the Tesseract before the rogue Asgardian did too much damage with it. 

"Perfect timing, Sergeant," Fury said, turning to meet the man who had just entered the room. "Captain, allow me to introduce Sergeant Barnes. He'll be your point of contact while you're on board. If you have any questions at all, he's your man," he said, turning away so Steve wouldn't see the smirk on his face. Coulson was going to regret missing this moment. 

"Bucky?!" Steve exclaimed in disbelief. 

"How ya been, punk?" Bucky said with a grin, as Steve tackle-hugged him, the big former soldier shaking with emotion at being reunited with his best friend, who he'd thought long dead. 

"Jeez, Steve," Bucky said, embarrassed. "You'll make my wife jealous if you carry on like that," he winked. 

"You're married?" Steve gaped. 

"And a father," Bucky said with a broad smile, pulling out his wallet and showing Steve a picture of a boy of five with blue eyes and honey brown curls. "Steven Orion Barnes. Has a nice ring, don't you think?" Bucky said, walking arm in arm with his best friend for the first time in far too long. 

Bucky proudly introduced Steve to his fellow agents Natasha Romanoff and Bella Black, who greeted him like family, with plenty of hugs and jokes, and immediately asked the sergeant for pictures of little Stevie. 

Bucky took it all in his stride, happily chatting about his family back home, but there was a distance in his eyes too; the look of a soldier. Bucky was on the job. As thrilled as he was to see his old friend again, Bucky took that particular job very seriously. It was his duty to make sure Steve and the other Avengers were ready when the time came to face off against Loki. 

They had a new mission… 


End file.
